OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
OF 


THE  BELLS: 


A  COLLECTION  OF   CHIMES. 


BY 

T.  B.  A. 


'  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  Poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  Belfry  of  his  brain  !  " 

BELFRY  OP  BRUGES. 


NEW  YORK: 

J.  C.  DERBY,  119  NASSAU  STREET. 

BOSTON :   PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  &  CO. 

CINCINNATI :  H.  W.  DERBY. 

1855. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

J.  C.  DERBY, 

In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  United  States  District  Court  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


Printed  by  HOLMAN,  GRAY  &  Co.,  N.  Y. 


A 


TO 
MY     MOTHER. 


M632653 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PROEM 9 

PRELUDE  TO  THE  STEEPLE  OF  ST.  AYNE  .  .  .13 

THE  STEEPLE  OF  ST.  AYNE 14 

CHATTERTON 20 

H.  W.  L 24 

CRESCENT  CITY  AT  NIGHT     .  .  .  .  .  .26 

SONG  OF  A  HEART 28 

THE  ANGEL 30 

FANNIE 32 

MAUD  OF  ALLINGGALE 35 

TO  MARIE 44 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  POESY 46 

A  CHRISTMAS  CHIME 49 

EUDELE 55 

DRIP,  DRIP,  DRIP 57 

TOUSOULIA 60 

A  MADRIGAL 66 

I  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 67 

#        #        #        #                    ......  69 

THE  TWO  CITIES 71 

THE  NIGHT  WIND  73 


VI 

PAGE 

IMORE 74 

FOREVER  AND  FOREVER 78 

A  NEST  OF  SONNETS 80 

THE  LITTLE  WITCHES  AT  THE  CROSSINGS        .            .  80 

PH(EBUS 82 

THE  NIGHT  RAIN 83 

"  THANATOPSIS  " 84 

NOON 85 

TO 86 

ELEGIAC 87 

BERTHABELL 89 

ABOUT  A  TINY  GIRL 91 

THE  GENTLE  HAND .93 

THE  THREE  CONCEITS 97 

EPIGRAMMATICAL 100 

TO  SUE 101 

ANACREONTIC      ........  103 

WITH  THE  STARS  AND  THE  STRIPES  AROUND  HIM        .  106 

THE  LACHRYMOSE 109 

THE  OLD  HOUSE 112 

MY  HIGHLAND  MARY 116 

TWILIGHT  IDYL 118 

THE  GOLDEN  ISLAND 121 

THE   BARD 124 

HOPE ;            ...  127 

LILLYAN .129 

IV.  SCENE  OF  BLANCHETTE 133 

NIGHT  SCENE.                                       144 


PROEM. 


PROEM. 


I.    THE    CHRISTENING. 


I'VE  christened  these,  my  poesies,  THE  BELLS, 
Because  there  is,  or  should  be,  in  all  rhymes, 
A  music  soft  and  silv'ry  as  the  chimes 
That  float  at  evening  through  the  twilight  dells, 
Born  in  the  belfry  of  some  village  church, 
Hid  by  the  ivy  clamb'ring  from  its  porch. 

Because  some  verses  have  a  solemn  roll, 
Sweetly  sad,  a  melancholy  swelling, 
Like  the  deep  bells  of  a  cathedral,  telling 
The  sad  departure  of  another  Soul 
For  the  Eternal  City  !   that  far  shore, 
Where,  like  a  sea,  Time  breaketh  evermore ! 


10 

Because  in  Bells  there  something  is  to  me 
Of  rhythms  and  the  poets  of  gone  years — 
A  sad  reverberation,  breeding  tears, 

Touching  the  finer  chords  of  memory  ! 

Bells  be  the  name  !  may  their  vibrations  clear, 

Fall  in  mild  cadences  upon  thine  ear ! 


II.     TO    MY    FRIENDS. 

YE  friends  that  gild  my  humbler  way ! 
Ye  stars  that  brighten  year  by  year ! 
I  know  your  hearts  are  with  him  here 
Who  seeks  to  tread  a  wider  sphere ; 

I  know  the  words  that  ye  would  say. 

And  thou,  0  friend  !  I  have  not  seen  ! 
Whose  hand  has  never  grasped  my  own, 
Whose  ear  has  never  caught  a  tone 
From  lips  of  mine,  to  whom  I'm  known 

In  thoughts,  and  not  by  form  or  mien  ; 

May  I  not  hope  some  passing  tone 
May  start  thy  sleeping  memory, 
May  bring  some  clouded  joy  to  thee? 
'Twere  sweet  to  know,  though  strangers  we, 

Thy  heart  is  chiming  with  my  own ! 


TEE    BELLS. 


PRELUDE 
TO  THE  STEEPLE  OF  ST.  AYNE. 


THE  snow  was  on  the  house-top, 
And  on  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  fire-light's  hand  was  tracing 
Weird  pictures  on  the  wall ; 

And  nearer  to  the  embers 
I  drew  my  little  chair, 
And  gazing  on  the  winking  logs 
I  saw  wild  figures  there. 

Sometimes  it  was  a  castle 
With  turrets  all  a-gleam  ; 
A  draw-bridge,  stretching  like  an  arm, 
Across  the  molten  stream  ; 


14 


Gonfalons,  and  warriors 
Encased  in  armor  red  ; 
And  all  the  legends  I  had  heard, 
Came  trooping  thro'  my  head. 

I  thought  of  ruins  hoary 
Beside  the  Danube's  wave, 
Of  Vogelweid  whose  treasures  fed 
The  birds  around  his  grave. 

I  thought  of  shadows  sleeping 
Around  the  Rodenstein ; 
And  tales  that  hover  bird-like  o'er 
The  silver  river  Rhine. 

And  melody  stole  on  me 
Like  a  sweet  midnight  chime  ; 
And  'mong  the  branches  of  my  brain 
I  found  this  nest  of  rhyme. 


THE  STEEPLE  OF  ST.  AYNE. 

YOU'LL  see  it  through  the  hemlock  boughs, 
As  down  the  moorland  road  you  pass, 
Standing  ghostly,  brown  and  still 
In  the  shadow  of  a  hill. 


15 


There  is  not  a  pane  of  glass 

In  any  of  the  carven  sashes ; 

But  thick  around  them,  like  eye-lashes, 

Hang  the  cobwebs  old  and  gray ! 

In  and  out  those  glassless  sockets, 

Floats  the  lazy  sun  all  day. 

I  have  often  heard  it  said 

Hair  grows  on  the  coffined  dead : 

I  know  not  if  it  be  so  ; 

But  upon  the  belfry's  crown, 

Mosses  of  a  dappled  brown 

And  many  curious  colors  grow  ! 

In  the  steeple,  where  the  swallows 
Dart,  like  lightning,  to  and  fro, 
Swings  the  ponderous  bell,  which  monks 
-In  that  tower  long  ago, 
Hung  with  many  pater  nosters, 
Chanted  hymns  and  litanies  ! 
Praying  when,  at  eve,  it  swung 
Between  its  lips  its  iron  tongue, 
What  it  said  might  reach  far  cities 
And  their  sinful  inmates  save ; 
Telling  with  its  solemn  tolling 
Time  was  ever,  ever  knolling 
Mortals  to  the  cold,  damp  grave ! 


16 


As  I  stand,  the  twilight  with  me, 
In  the  Steeple  of  St.  Ayne, 
Far  I  wander  in  the  regions 
Of  the  misty  Land  of  Legends, 
Painting  pictures  on  my  brain. 
Olden  scenes  came  back  to  me ; 
The  past  throws  off  its  dusty  shroud. — 
The.  Abbot  and  the  monkish  train 
In  the  old  cathedral  crowd, 
Filling  aisles  and  niches  dim 
With  their  pious  murmuring  ; 
And,  as  silver  censers  swing, 
Swells  and  sinks  their  evening  hymn. 
To  the  gorgeous  frescoed  dome — 
Paintings,  brought  from  holy  Rome — 
Floats  in  clouds  the  soft  perfume ; 
While  the  pensive  evening  gloom, 
With  a  foot  that  seems  to  falter, 
Mounts  the  carved  steps  of  the  altar, 
Standing  silently  beside 
An  image  of  the  Crucified ! 
Now  the  solemn  chant  of  souls 
Through  gallery  and  cloister  rolls ! 
While,  as  if  with  sudden  pain, 
Dolorous  the  Curfew  tolls 
In  the  Steeple  of  St.  Ayne. 


17 


Now  I  see  a  marriage  cortege, 
Mailed  knights  and  cavaliers ; 
Eeeling  plumes  and  glist'ning  lances ; 
Maidens  with  tkeir  stolen  glances ; 
Dames  in  kirtles  of  brocade — 
All  the  pomp  of  other  years. 
Then  the  bride  in  white  arrayed, 
Milky  roses  on  her  brow, 
White  and  beautiful  as  snow, 
While  her  deep  and  blond  eyes  glisten 
As  the  beams  from  Dian's*  bow. 
On  her  bosom,  budding  forth 
Like  lilies  from  the  pregnant  earth, 
Gems,  as  rich  as  those  of  Ind, 
From  the  caverns  of  the  East, 
Rise  and  fall  at  every  breath 
As  she  gives  her  hand  beneath 
.The  benediction  of  the  priest. 
Hushed  the  epithalamium ! 
All  the  gaudy  train  is  gone, 
Priest,  choragus ;  and  deep  Silence 
Sits  within  the  pews  alone ! 

And,  now  through  the  open  door 
Streams  the  sunshine  on  the  floor, 
Throwing  sparkles  where  the  dismal, 
Breathless  shadows  moped  before. 


18 


By  the  marble  urn  baptismal, 
Standeth  two  to  whom  is  given 
A  revelation  late  from  heaven ! 
A  piece  of  clay  !  a  little  breath  ! 
A  form  to  toil  and  bear  its  cross 
Like  the  Christ  of  Nazareth ! 


Now  I  see  a  funeral  train, 

Passing  sorrowful  and  slow 

Through  the  chiseled  portico, 

Where  are  shadows  sad  and  solemn 

Cast  by  many  a  fluted  column. 

To  the  altar's  front  they  bear 

Their  lifeless  charge  and  leave  it  there. 

At  the  feet  and  at  the  head 

Of  the  shrived  and  shrouded  dead, 

Candles  burn.     The  sunlight's  fingers, 

Dipped  in  the  window's  hues, 

Throw  an  iridescent  light 

On  the  coffin,  and  it  lingers 

Till  the  gibbous  moon  at  night, 

Looking  through  that  painted  window, 

Throws  her  lovelier  tints  below. 

Mournfully  the  funeral  train, 

Tearful,  sad  and  slow, 

Passes  thro'  the  porch  again, 


19 


While  the  bell  within  the  steeple, 
Throbbeth  like  a  heart  in  wo  ! 


'Tis  gone !  'tis  gone  !  I  am  alone, 

With  the  calm,  starry  night  alone, 

In  the  old  Steeple  of  St.  Ayne ! 

The  chanting,  hooded  monks  are  gone ; 

The  marriage  train  has  sought  the  regions 

Of  the  misty  Land  of  Legends ; 

And  the  sunshine  through  the  door 

Sleepeth  not  upon  the  floor; 

And  the  dead  one,  borne  so  slow 

Through  the  friezed  portico, 

Has  come  back  again 

To  the  charnel  of  my  brain  ! 

O'er  these  shadows — shadows  all — 

Reality  has  thrown  a  pall. 

Yet  the  steeple  loometh  still 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill ; 

Standing,  shattered,  yet  sublime — 

A  tombstone  to  departed  Time  !  ' 


20 


CHATTERTON. 


i. 


Tins  eve  my  heart  is  floating  upon  tears, 
A  fallen  rose-leaf  floating  on  a  stream. 
Li  the  dim  shadow  of  departed  years 

I  have  been  lying  with  a  saddened  dream — 
A  dream  of  poor,  poor  CHATTERTON  ! 

That  soul  which,    like  the  thousand-lanced 

sun, 

Ate  itself  into  night !  that  monarch  soul ! 
Which  foamed  and  muttered  like  the  sobbing 

sea, 

And  broke  a  heart  that  it  could  not  control. 
Poor  CHATTERTON  !  who  does  not  weep  for 
thee? 


21 


What  bosom  melts  not  at  the  mournful  tale 
Of  thy  short,  fevered  life  ?     Thou  diedst  in 
scorn, 

Like  the  proud  moon  that  doth  majestic  sail 
The  ebon  night,  and  sinks  before  the  dawn. 

n. 

As  the  soft  snow  comes  down 

And  fills  each  secret  nook, 

Robing  the  ice-stilled  brook 
And  the  house-tops  of  the  town, 

And  the  chimneys  as  they  look, 
With  open  mouths,  to  all 
The  flakes,  till  in  a  pall 

Of  white  the  earth  is  hid  ; 
So  did  Ambition  creep 

Upon  the  child  unbid. 
Each  grotto  of  his  heart 

It  filled,  each  crevice  deep, 
E'en  as  the  eye  its  lid. 

'Twas  of  his  soul  a  part. 

in. 

'Twas  twilight  ebb,  and  the  boy  was  sitting 
In  a  deep  recess  of  the  gothic  hall ; 

Wildest  thoughts  across  his  heart  were  flitting, 
Wild  as  the  tracery  upon  the  wall. 


22 


Upon  a  stair  of  stars  the  Night  came  down, 
With  footfalls  noiseless  as  the  stealthy  air, 
And  like   a   mantle  wrapped   the    shouldered 

town ; 

And   still  the  child  sat  dreaming,  brooding 
»   there. 

The  moon  sleeked  "  anciente  "  Bristol  with  her 

beams, 
And  from  St.  Mary's  swelled  the  midnight 

chime  ; 

Still  sat  the  boy,  his  hot  brain  moulding  dreams 
Which  cluster,  star-like,  on  the  sky  of  Time  ! 

****** 
****** 

v. 

Morn  broke  on  restless  London,  like  a  sea, 
In  rippling  waves  of  light ;  the  sun  sent  all 

The  sleepy  stars  to  bed.     The  great  city 
Was  awakened  to  wrangle  in  its  thrall 

Of  crime  and  servitude  ;  and  in  its  streets, 

Through  which  the  pulse  of  greedy  Traffic  beats, 
The  crier's  voice    mixed  with  the  rattling 
wheel ; 


And  all  the  vast  machinery  din 

Went  on  as  if  from  out  that  place  of  sin 

In  the  cold  night,  a  spirit  did  not  steal, 
Wininno-  its  way  thro'  Heaven's  starry  fires, 

O        O  J  * 

To  rest  forever  on  th'  eternal  shore. 
Mora  broke  on  London,  crowning  all  its  spires 
With  gold — but  CHATTERTOM  !   he  was  no 
more. 

VI. 

In  coffin  roughly  nailed, 

They  placed  his  boyish  form 

While  yet  his  blood  was  warm, 
His  forehead  scarcely  paled  ;    • 

And  bore  him  quick  along 

Amid  the  heedless  throng. 
Ah  !  cruel  hands  that  laid 

That  little  weary  frame 
Within  the  grave  they  made,* 

With  nought  to  tell  his  name ; 
It  should  not  have  been  so ; 

No  pauper  ground  should  own 
That  shattered  casket,  tho' 

The  gem  itself  is  gone  ! 

*  He  was  cast  into  the  burying-ground  of  Shoe-lane  Work 
house — the  pauper's  burying-ground— the  end,  so  far  as  his 
clayey  tabernacle  was  concerned,  of  all  his  dreamy  greatness. 
— Mus.  S.  C.  HALL. 


H.  W.   L. 


LIKE  him  of  old,  whose  touch  divine 

Drew  water  from  the  senseless  stone, 
Thy  words  have  drawn  a  silver  tone 

Of  music  from  this  heart  of  mine. 


O  Poet-soul !     O  gentle  one  ! 

Thy  thought  has  made  my  darkness  light ; 

The  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night 
Have  filled  me  with  an  inner  tone. 


Their  echoes  linger  on  my  ear ; 

The  footsteps  of  the  Angels  come 
Thro'  the  long  entry  to  my  room ; 

I  almost  fancy  that  I  hear 


A  low,  sweet  breathing  at  the  door, 

And  do  not  dare  to  move,  for  I 

Would  not  dispel  the  fantasy 
That  grows  upon  me  more  and  more. 

To  gain  that  near,  that  far  off  shore 
We  only  cross  a  bridge  of  Sleep  ; 
That  bridge  sinks  not  into  the  deep, 

When  we  have  passed,  for  evermore. 

The  unfleshed  dead  can  cross  again 
Unto  this  sphere.     0  !  I  am  sure 
They're  near  us,  when  high  thoughts  and 
pure, 

Like  monarchs,  pace  our  chamber' d  brain. 

0  Bard  of  Shadows  !  thine  the  art 

To  lead  us  through  the  realm  of  dreams. 
Robing  the  Real  until  it  seems 

Of  the  fair  Ideal  a  part. 

I'll  drink  thy  praise  in  olden  wine, 
And  in  the  cloak  of  fine  conceite 
I'll  tell  thee  how  my  pulses  beat, 

How  half  my  being  runs  to  thine. 


CRESCENT  CITY  AT  NIGHT. 


SEEiY  FROM  THE   FRENCH  CATHEDRAL  AT  PLACE 


How  grand  to  sit  in  this  old  steeple  high, 
And  view  the  city  with  its  veins  of  streets  ! 
A  muffled  sound,  like  troubled  winds  that  die, 
Mounts   to    the  house-tops  and   in    space    re 
treats. 

The  soot-faced  chimneys  whisper  far  beneath 
With  heads  half  hidden  in  their  smoky  breath ! 

Now,  as  Night  draws  her  counterpane  of  black, 

And  tucks  it  closely  round  the  horizon, 

The   lamp-fringed    streets  are  lighted    one  by 

one — 

Each  seems  a  serpent  with  a  glossy  back  ! 
With  spectral  fingers  quiv'ring  in  the  air, 
The  churches  point  to  where  "  our  Father  " 

dwells ; 


Ava  Maria  from  the  tongues  of  bells 
Floats  to  the  zenith  and  the  angels  there, 
Who,  crowned  with  asphodel  and  twilight  dim, 
Are  messengers  between  this  world  and  Him  ! 


SONG  OF  A  HEART. 


YE  who  love  Nature,  and  in  Nature,  God, 
Listen  to  one  whose  heart  is  full  of  song 
And  gratitude  unto  his  very  lips. 

His  music  is  not  art-born  ;  it  leaps  forth 
Untutored,  like  the  daisies  of  the  spring, 
Or  brooks  that  babble  of  their  own  free  will. 

In  the  sweet  faces  of  the  buds  I  see 

The  God  that  swings  this  flower-scented  sphere, 

Like  a  great  censer,  in  the  purple  void ! 

I  have  a  sense  within  me  that  perceives 
His  Presence  in  the  blowing  wind,  and  in 
The  footsteps  of  the  crystal-footed  Rain ! 


To  him  that  holdeth  Nature  near  his  heart, 
The  brooks  are  hymning  praises,  and  the  sea 
Is  ever  rolling  some  grand  authem  forth ! 

The  grass  that  comes  in  April  to  the  mounds 
In  grave-yards,  and  the  vines  that  creep  along 
The  humble  porch  of  village  churches,  are 

So  many  fingers  pointing  up  to  God ! 
So  many  holy  monitors  that  tell 

His  majesty  in  silent  eloquence  ! 

. 

O,  Pilgrim  to  the  Unseen  Land  !  if  thou 
Art  thirsty  for  the  Living  Waters  ;  if 
Thy  lips  do  hunger  for  the  Bread  of  Life, 

And  yet  thou  fearest  "  the  cold  feel  of  death," 
The  grave — that  gate-way  to  eternity 
And  Paradise — love  Nature,  for  'tis  God. 


30 


THE    ANGEL. 


O  !  MEMORY,  the  painter  ! 

Limns  upon  rny  brain 
The  faces  of  beloved  ones 

I'll  never  see  again ! 

There  is  one  sainted  picture — 
O,  fancy  keep  it  near ! — 

'Mid  golden  hair,  Madonna  eyes, 
Serene,  and  deep,  and  clear. 

We  knew  she  was  an  Angel, 
We  knew  she  could  not  stay ! 

And  long  we  waited  tearfully 
To  see  her  fly  away  ! 


31 


We  knew  that  she  was  passing 
Thro'  life  untouched,  serene, 

As  far  from  earth's  impurities 
As  Christ  from  Magdalene. 


The  Angels  wearied  for  her, 

And  so  from  Paradise 
Death  came,  and  kissed  her  tenderly, 

His  hand  upon  her  eyes  ! 

And  as  a  flower  at  evening- 
Folds  its  leaves  to  rest, 

She  meekly  crossed  her  whitened  hands 
Upon  her  peaceful  breast : 

Loid  so  white  and  beautiful, 

So  full  of  holy  trust, 
It  seemed  a  shame  to  lay  so  pure 

A  flower  in  tfte  dust. 


We  saw  no  seraph's  pinions, 
We  saw  no  mystic  things ; 

But  going  from  our  hearts  we  felt 
An  Angel's  rustling  wings  ! 


'32 


FANNIE. 


FANNIE  has  the  sweetest  foot 
Ever  in  a  gaiter  boot ! 
And  the  hoyden  knows  it, 
And,  of  course,  she  shows  it, — 
Not  the  knowledge,  but  the  foot, — 
Yet  with  such  a  modest  grace, 
Never  seems  it  out  of  place, 

Ah,  there  are  not  many 

Half  so  sly,  or  sad,  or  mad, 

Or  wickeder  than  Fannie. 


Fannie  has  the  blackest  hair 
Of  any  of  the  village  girls ; 

It  does  not  shower  on  her  neck 
In  silken  or  coquettish  curls. 


33 


It  droops  in  folds  around  her  brow, 

As  clouds,  at  night,  around  the  moon, 
Looped  with  lilies  here  and  there, 

In  many  a  dangerous  festoon. 
And  Fannie  wears  a  gipsy  hat, 
Saucily — yes,  all  of  that ! 

Ah,  there  are  not  many 

Half  so  sly,  or  sad,  or  mad, 
Or  wickeder  than  Fannie. 


Fannie  wears  an  open  dress — 

Ah  !  the  charming  chemisette  ! 
Half  concealing,  half  revealing 

Something  far  more  charming  yet. 
Fannie  drapes  her  breast  with  lace, 
As  one  would  drape  a  costly  vase 
To  keep  away  mischievous  flies ; 
But  lace  can't  keep  away  one's  eyes, 
For  every  time  her*bosom  heaves, 

Ah,  it  peepeth  through  it ; 
Yet  Fannie  looks  the  while  as  if 

Never  once  she  knew  it. 

Ah,  there  are  not  many 

Half  so  sly,  or  sad,  or  mad, 
Or  innocent  as  Fannie. 


34 


Fannie  lays  her  hand  in  mine  ; 

Fannie  speaks  with  naivete, 
Fannie  kisses  me,  she  does  ! 

In  her  own  coquettish  way. 
Then  softly  speaks  and  deeply  sighs, 
With  angels  nestled  in  her  eyes. 
In  the  merrie  month  of  May, 
Fannie  swears  sincerely 
She  will  be  my  own,  my  wife, 
And  love  me  dearly,  dearly 
Ever  after  all  her  life. 

Ah,  there  are  not  many 

Half  so  sly,  or  sad,  or  mad, 
As  my  true-hearted  Fannie. 


35 


MAUD  OF  ALLINGOALE. 
PART  I. 


I. 

THE  wind  was  toying  with  her  hair, 
As  on  the  turret  top  she  stood ; 
Her  gaze  was  on  the  bending  wood, 

And  in  her  eyes  a  dim  despair. 

Moaning  CEnone,  sad  and  pale, 

Sweet  Psyche  when  her  love  had  gone 
Were  not  more  tearful  or  forlorn 
Than  Maud  of  Allinggale. 

n. 

And  "Ah,"  she  said,  "  he  will  not  come! 
faad  I  have  waited  all  the  day." 


36 


Afar  she  saw  the  ocean  spray, 
Like  lances  glimmer  in  the  gloom. 
And  then  the  moon  came  sideling  up 
Deep  set  within  a  milky  girth  : 
And  at  the  zenith  turned  on  earth 
Like  an  inverted  cup. 

in. 

Two  moons  o'er  sleeping  earth  had  bent, 
Then  stately  through  the  heavens  strode, 
Since  Walter  from  the  castle  rode 
Armed  cap-d-pie  for  tournament : 
"  O  Maud  of  Allinggale  !"  he  said, 
"A  little  while  arid  I  will  come," 
And  fondly  o'er  her  drooped  the  plume 
That  floated  from  his  head. 


IV. 

She  heard  his  footsteps  on  the  floor, 
She  saw  him  thro'  the  forest  leaves, 
The  orange  sunshine  on  his  greaves ; 

And  he  was  gone — for  ever  more  ; 

For  in  the  heart  of  that  green  wood, 
Unknown,  unseen  by  mortal  eyes, 
The  Castle  of  a  Thousand  Dyes 
Of  fairy  Monok  stood. 


37 


v. 

This  queen  immortal  loved  the  knight, 
And  so  she  sent  an  airling  brood 
To  lead  him  thro'  the  bosky  wood 

Until  he  knew  no  left  nor  right ; 

And  as  he  paused  upon  a  steep 

That  rose  from  out  a  fountain  place, 
They  sprinkled  dew-drops  on  his  face, 
And  so  he  fell  asleep. 


VI. 

And  two  white-breasted  wood-nymphs  took 
The  dreaming  youth  in  their  soft  arms, 
And  bore  him  where  a  row  of  Palms 

Shaddowed  a  draw-bridge  on  the  brook ; 

And  'tween  two  cedars,  old  and  gaunt, 
Their  summits  tinged  with  yellow  light, 
They  passed,  and  bore  the  sleeping  knight 
Into  the  fairy  haunt. 


VII. 


They  took  the  helmet  from  his  brow, 
Unlaced  his  breast-plate,  white  as  milk, 
And  draped  him  with  a  robe  of  silk 

Glittering  like  a  frozen  snow  ! 
3 

i 


38 


And  in  his  coat  of  mail  instead 

They  placed  a  form  like  Walter's  made, 
And  laid  it  in  the  forest  glade 
As  though  that  he  were  dead. 


PART    II. 


I. 

When  Walter  woke  his  dream-filled  eyes 
Were  dazzled  with  the  rainbow  light ; 
"  St.  George !"  he  cried,  "  I'm  lost  to  sight 

And  sense,  be  this  not  Paradise !" 

He  heard  the  trembles  of  a  lute, 
He  saw  the  fountains  leap  in  air, 
And  spread  around  him  everywhere 
The  most  delicious  fruit. 


n. 

And  chalices  ambrosial  brimmed, 
Flagons  of  the  costliest  wine 
Fresh  from  the  vineyards  of  the  Rhine, 

And  honey  from  the  richest  skimmed  ; 


Rich  cordials  full  of  golden  eyes  ; 
And  delicacies  of  all  isles, 
Scattered  around  him,  in  huge  piles 
Lay  like  wrecked  argosies. 


in. 


The  trilling  of  a  thousand  birds 
Burst  on  him  with  canorous  swells, 
And  the  faint  tinkling  of  far  bells 

Came  rustling  through  his  sense's  chords. 

The  walls  were  rough  with  priceless  stones, 
The  window  niches  diamond-laid, 
And  the  long  fluted  colonnade 
Was  girt  with  wealth  of  zones. 


IV. 


And  there  were  halls  so  vast  and  deep 

The  eye  could  scarcely  reach  half  through  ; 
E'en  music's  echo  weary  grew, 

And  tripping  through  them  fell  asleep  ! 

Upon  his  raptured  senses  stole 
The  rarest  perfume  of  the  spheres 
Rich  with  the  crystal,  star-born  tears 
Found  in  the  rose's  bowl. 


40 


v. 


"  What  mystic  things  will  fancy  do!" 
He  said,  and,  as  he  spoke,  white  hands 
Undid  the  glitt'ring  silver  bands 
That  held  a  gorgeous  curtain  to, 
And  drawing  back  the  silken  screen 
His  eyes  beheld,  on  throne  of  gold, 
Like  Egypt's  courtesan  of  old, 
Monok,  the  fairy  Queen. 


VI. 

"  O  !  thou  that  sittest  goddess  like  !" 
He,  kneeling,  cried  before  the  throne, 
"  Tell  me  if  all  my  brain  be  gone ! 
And  what  these  wondrous  scenes  that  strike 
My  fancy  captive  ?  Whence  thou  art  ? 
And  whence  this  dulcet  melody  ? 
These  nectar-laden  gales,  and  why 
This  rustling  in  my  heart  ?" 


VII. 

Then  rich  she  made  him  with  a  smile, 

And  sweeping  from  her  throne  with  pride, 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  and  sighed, 

Half  laughing  at  him  all  the  while ; 


41 


And  to  his  ear  bent  down  her  head, 
With  voice  that  had  a  cymbal's  ring 
"Sir  Knight  of  Ains worth  thou  art  king 
Of  this  domain  !"  she  said. 

VIII. 

She  led  him  to  the  'nameled  throne, 
And  placed  a  crown  upon  his  brow, 
And  kneeling  at  his  footstool  low, 
"  Sir  Knight,"  she  said,  "  I  am  thine  own !" 
Her  breath,  like  a  soft  summer  gale 

Nursed  in  the  heart  of  some  sweet  grot, 
Was  on  his  cheek,  and  he  forgot 
His  Maud  of  Allinggale ! 


PART    III. 


I. 


As  Lady  Maud,  heart-sick  and  pale, 

From  Ainsworth's  tower  watched  that  night, 
She  saw  a  strange  and  flick'ring  light 

Moving  across  the  darkened  vale  ; 


And  nearer,  nearer  still  it  came, 
Until  she  saw  amid  the  gloom 
The  floating  of  a  snowy  plume. 
Her  lips  half  breathed  a  name. 


n. 

And  down  the  spiral  stair  she  sped, 
And  in  the  long  torch-lighted  hall 
She  saw  upon  a  bloody  pall 

Walter  of  Ainsworth,  lying  dead. 

O  !  wild  and  mournful  was  her  wail ! 
Pale  Venus  when  Adonis  died 
Had  not  a  sorrow  wilder-eyed, 
Than  Maud  of  Allinggale. 


in. 

"  Whose  hand  did  this  ?"  and  then  a  flood 
Of  tears  o'er  her  eyelids  broke  ; 
And  thus  the  knight  of  Lyclwick  spoke 
"  We  found  him  slain  in  yonder  wood, 
His  red  blood  mingling  with  the  brook, 
And  his  large  thoughtful,  staring  eyes 
Fixed  on  a  cloudlet  in  the  skies 
With  melancholy  look. 


43 


IV. 

"  We  know  not  how  Sir  Walter  fell ; 
But  if  'twas  in  concerted  fight, 
We  know  he  fell  like  a  true  knight. 
Who  struck  the  blow,  it  were  not  well 
That  he  a  knight  of  Ainsworth  meet ; 
We  'd  teach  him  that  our  Walter's  death 
Has  made  ten  swords  in  each  sheath, 
And  he  should  kiss  our  feet !" 


Then  Lady  Maud  bent  down  her  head 
Upon  the  image's  cold  breast, 
Like  one  that  lieth  down  to  rest ; 

They  spoke  to  her,  but  she  was  dead  ! 

Ah,  why  prolong  the  saddened  tale  ? 
In  Ainsworth  chapel,  side  by  side. 
Lies  Walter's  armor  and  his  bride, 
SwTeet  Maud  of  Allinggale. 


44 


O     MARIE. 


As  sea-shells  whisper  of  the  sleepless  sea, 
Memory  whispers  of  the  past  and  you, 
Charming  my  bosom  with  its  melody. 
Those  summer  nights,  which  all  too  quickly 

flew, 

Like  singing  birds  upon  their  noiseless  wings, 
Ghost-like  rise  up  before  me,  and  I  turn 
To  sip  the  chalice  pleasing  mem'ry  brings. 
There  is  one  eve  I  cherish  in  my  breast 
Like  holy  water  in  a  marble  urn  : 
The  sun  was  treading  to  the  yawning  West — 
To  that  great  grave-yard  of  the  buried  Days  ! 
And  at  our  feet  a  devious  river  rolled, 
Squirming  and  gliding  in  the  sunset's  blaze, 
Like  a  great  serpent  with  a  skin  of  gold  ! 


We  had  been  reading  a  young  Bard,  who'd 

stemmed 

The  sea  of  criticism,  and  unfurled 
His  daring  colors  to  a  charmed  world ; 
In  his  rich  heart  our  poorer  hearts  were  hem 
med. 

Your  voice  was  full  of  tears,  and  there  stood 
Two,  trembling,  on  the  threshhold  of  your  eyes. 

0  !  much,  my  friend,  I  envied  him  who  could 
Lure  two  such  angels  out  of  paradise. 

You  bent  above  me,  and  your  nighty  hair, 
Like  dusk  and  sunset  mixing,  mixed  with  mine  ; 

1  felt  a  kiss,  or  'twas  a  passing  air 
That  had  been  loitering  on  lips  divine. 
Then  you  drew  back,  and  with  a  crimson  look 
Grazed  at  the  pebbles  in  the  talking  brook. 


3* 


46 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  POESY. 


ANOTHER  Minstrel,  panting  for  a  name, 

Enters  the  lists  of  Rhyme 

To  run  a  tilt  with  Time, 
And  bring,  low  kneeling  at  his  feet,  great  Fame, 


With  vizard  down,  he  comes  as  one  in  mask, 
Like  some  adventurer  of  old 
Who,  till  he  won  the  Spurs  of  Gold, 

Laid  not  aside  his  hauberk  or  his  casque  ; 

He  comes,  his  name,  and  prowess  all  untold. 
Unknown,  this  Poet-knight, 

Mounted  on  Pegasus,  most  famous  steed  ! 

Seeketh  the  Tournament  of  Poesy, 

Full  of  the  hope  of  glorious  deed  ; 


47 


And  dares  in  deadly  fight — 
Invoking  first  his  patron  Muse — 
All  knights  that  speak  maliciously  ; 
All  that  discourteously  refuse 
To  press  their  goblet's  mouth  of  wine, 
When  he  shall  give  as  toast  divine, 
His  Ladye-love,  the  loveliest  of  the  Nine — 

Dark-veiled  Melpomene ! 


For  Beauty — be  it  in 
A  blue-bell's  or  a  woman's  eyes, 
A  rose's  or  a  maiden's  lips  in  bloom, 
A  forest,  waving  like  a  helmet  plume, 
Or  the  soft  tintings  of  the  sunset  skies — 
He  has  a  soul  that  claims  the  chance 
To  blunt  a  sword  or  to  break  a  lance. 


Beauty's  champion,  he  is  Virtue's  too  ; 
For  are  not  grace  and  goodness  sisters  twin  ? 
Virtue  is  a  beauty  that  within 
Sheds  radiance  without,  as  does  a  light 
Through  the  windows  of  a  room  at  night, 
Or  flowers,  breathing  from  a  vase, 
Or  jewels  from  their  case. 


48 


He  loves  all  forms  of  loveliness, 

And  Nature  sits  within  him  like  a  heart, 
Ruling  with  magic  tenderness. 

The  air-winged  birds  that  dart 
Up  the  blue  stair-case  of  the  porphyry  clouds  ; 
The  Autumn-fingered  foliage  that  shrouds 
A  sleeping  church-yard,  or  the  evening  dim, 

Stalking  majestically  down 
Upon  the  noisy  and  mast-fringed  town, 

Or  the  winged  and  ever  restless  ships, 

Or  the  murmuring  of  Ocean's  lips, 
Are  everlasting  joys  to  him  ; 
For  he  is  one  whose  bosom  doubted  never 
"  A  thing  of  beauty"  is  "  a  joy  forever." 


His  war-cry  shall  be  heard  ; 

It  is  that  mystic  word 
Which,  on  a  banner  in  the  twilight  brown, 
A  youth  once  carried  thro'  an  Alpine  town — 
Excelsior ! 


49 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHIME. 
THE  GUESTS, 

AND    WHAT     THE      STRANGE     OLD    MAN    DOES    IN 
THE   OLD  HOUSE   EVERY  CHRISTMAS  NIGHT. 


All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died, 
Are  haunted  houses." — LONGFELLOW. 


THE  angels  bend  in  heaven's  arch  to-night, 
And     sprinkle    snow-flakes    on    the    city's 

streets ; 
The  wind  moans  round  the   chimney-tops  in 

fright 
And  sprightly  hail  taps  every  one  it  meets. 


50 


The  lamps  that  stud  the  white  and  pearled  way, 
Glare  like  mad  demons  thro'   the  blinding 

storm  ; 
Shop-windows  watch  the  snow  sprites  as  they 

play, 
Or  throw  their  rays  upon  each  passing  form. 


'Tis  Christmas  night ;  and  while  from  street  to 

street, 

The  echo  hurries,  like  a  startled  mouse, 
And  phantom  laughs    are  mingling  with  the 

sleet, 
An  Old  Man  sits  within  an  olden  house.    ' 


The  house  is  quaint,  odd-fashioned,  and  antique ; 

Grim  Time  has  passed  his  palm  across  the 

roof 
And  left  it  wrinkled  !     'Tis  so  dark  and  bleak 

At  twilight  play  the  children  keep  aloof. 


There's  not  a  sound  in  all  its  sombre  halls, 
And  brooding  silence  sits  upon  the  stair ; 

One  can  most  see  the  "  quiet  as  it  crawls" 
Along  the  entry  through  the  biting  air. 


51 


Why  sits  the  Old  Man  in  the  big  old  room, 
Watching  the  hearth-light  o'er  the  mouldings 
climb  ? 

The  man  and  chamber  in  its  ghostly  gloom 
Seem  things  forgotten  in  the  flight  of  time. 


Why  sits  he  thus    beside    the  wide-mouthed 

hearth  ? 
Does  he  call  up  sweet  forms  that,  like  the 

leaves, 

Have  mixed  with  flowers  in  the  wombed  earth  ? 
Or  does  he  hear  the  hail  upon  the  eaves  ? 


The  jingling  sleigh-bells  in  the  street  below, 
The    goblin    sleet  that  droppeth   down  the 
flue, 

The  huntsman  wind  that  whistles  to  the  snow — 
Are  these  the  noises  that  he  listens  to  ? 


Or  does  he  catch  the  echoes  of  the  Past, 
Like  fine  vibrations  of  a  distant  bell  ? 

Do  memories  fall  on  him  thick  and  fast 
As  hail  without  upon  the  snowy  swell  ? 


I  wot  not  either ;  but  the  Old  Man  seems 
A  link  between  this  mortal  life  and  death — 

A  dreamy  pilgrim  to  the  Land  of  Dreams, 
His  life,  a  feather  balanced  on  a  breath. 


He  bends  his  head  ;  he  hears  the  panels  creak ; 
Then  by  the  chimney  leaves  his  cushioned 

chair  ; 

And,  with  a  joy  his  moistened  eyelids  speak, 
He  draws  three  seats  beside  his  own  with 
care. 


He  holds  his  old  hands  out,  as  if  to  grasp 

Some  other  hands ;  he  sighs  and  smiles  and 
sighs  ; 

Now  stands  as  if  within  some  loving  clasp — 
His  eyes  intently  gaze  in  other  eyes  ! 


And  now  he  points  his  phantom  guests  their 
seats. 

He  heaps  fresh  fuel  upon  the  fire-place ; 
And  all  is  still,  save  one  quick  heart  that  beats 

In  yonder  clock,  within  its  coffin  case. 


53 


O,  what  a  queer  Old  Man  !     And  does  he  see 
Ethereal  spirits  seated  in  those  chairs  ? 

Do  souls  come  back  from  God's  eternity 
To  mingle  with  us  and  our  daily  cares  ? 


I  do  believe  it !  and  'tis  grand  to  feel 

That,  when  the  breezes  lift  our  fevered  hair, 

Some  friend's  hand  does  it,  and  at  ev'ry  meal 
The  loved  are  near  us,  round  us  like  the  air  ! 


I  do  believe  they're  with^us  all  the  day, 
And  o'er  our  holier  hours  vigils  keep ; 

That  they  kneel  with  us  when  we  kneel  to  pray, 
And  bend  above  us  when  we  fall  asleep. 

Bui  see,  he  smiles !     O  sure  some  airy  one 
Has  twined  a  sunbeam  round  his  parted  lips  ; 

He  hears  a  voice,  a  voice  for  him  alone — 
We  hear  it  not,  nor  see  the  ghost  that  trips 


Around  the  arm-chair  of  the  dreamy  man. 

A  lip  intangible  his  own  lip  nears  ; 
It  falls  so  kindly  on  his  thin  cheek  wan, 

The  Old  Man  weeps,  and  slumbers  in  his  tears. 


54 


And  every  year  when  holy  Christmas  comes, 
He  draws  those  chairs  within  the  hearth-stone 

gleams, 

And  fondly  all  his  viewless  household  sums, 
Then    falls   asleep    'mid    kisses,   tears,   and 
dreams. 


55 


EUDELE. 

THE  soft  wind  moved  the  curtain's  fold, 

And  rippled  her  gold  waves  of  hair, 
While  like  some  voiceless  lily's  lip, 
Touched  by  a  gentle  whiff  of  air, 
Moved  as  by  inward  melody, 
Her  lips  were  trembling  with  a  prayer, 
Which  lark-like  soared  from  out  this  world  of 

sin. 

"  To-morrow,"  and  she  raised  her  eyes, 
"  I'll  walk  with  Christ  in  Paradise." 
And  thro'  the  window  came  the  Twilight  in. 

The  soft  wind  moved  the  curtain's  fold, 
And  cooled  her  cheek  with  kisses  faint ; 
And  as  she  lay  upon  the  bed, 
The  curls  that  clustered  o'er  her  head 
Were  like  the  halo  of  a  saint. 


A  light  was  breaking  on  her  lips, 
Like  that  which  tinges  mountain  tips 

At  death  of  August  days  ; 
While  with  her  on  the  pillow  lay 
The  golden  parasites  of  day — 

The  sunset's  amber  rays. 
The  flowers  closed  their  eyelids  up  ; 
The  harebell  and  the  butter-cup, 
The  tulip  and  the  sun-struck  jessamine. 
With  whispered  sighs  and  dainty  feet, 
The  evening  zephyrs  tripped  about ; 
Then,  as  a  flower  yields  its  sweet, 

A  pure  spirit  flitted  out, 
And  thro'  the  window  came  the  Twilight  in, 

We  hid  her  in  a  green  retreat, 
With  daisies  at  her  heart  and  feet, 

To  guard  her  with  sweet  eyes  ; 
And  when  we  weep  Eadele  as  dead, 
We  smile  to  think  of  what  she  said 

Of  "  Christ"  and  "  Paradise"— 
Of  that  far  sphere  where  neither  sin 
Nor  sombre  Twilight  enter  in. 


57 


DRIP,  DRIP,  DRIP. 

A      RAINY      DAY      LYRIC. 

ALL  through  that  dreariest  day, 
Out  of  the  window  pane 
We  gazed,  but  our  eyes  could  see 
The  rain, — nothing  but  rain. 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
It  said  to  the  sullen  eaves ; 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
And  danced  upon  the  leaves. 

The  flowers  that  clomb  the  porch, 
Violets  like  the  skies, 
Grew  as  dreamy  and  dim  as 
A  tearful  maiden's  eyes. 
Drip,  drip,  drip, 
It  said  to  the  sullen  eaves  ; 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
And  trembled  on  the  leaves. 


58 


A  thrill,  like  a  thrill  of  joy, 
Ran  through  the  fields  of  grain  ; 
And  they  bowed  their  heads  beneath 
The  blessing  of  the  rain ! 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
It  said  to  the  sullen  eaves  ; 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
And  danced  upon  the  leaves. 

The  barn  grew  solemn  and  brown, 
The  white-washed  fence  and  wall ; 
And  the  "  poplars"  at  the  gate 
Looked  odd,  and  grim,  and  tall. 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
It  said  to  the  sullen  eaves ; 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
And  trembled  on  the  leaves. 


When  seated  around  the  hearth — - 
The  evening  meal  was  through — 
We  could  hear  the  cunning  rain 
Come  singing  down  the  flue. 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
It  said  to  the  sullen  eaves ; 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
And  danced  upon  the  leaves. 


oO 


And  when  we  went  to  our  beds, 
Still  we  could  hear  the  rain  ; 
It  tried  the  kitchen  door,  and 
Spit  on  the  window  pane  ! 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
It  said  to  the  sullen  eaves  ; 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
And  trembled  on  the  leaves. 


Still  does  it  haunt  our  dreams,  that 
Weariest,  dreary  rain, 
That  came  from  the  mouths  of  clouds, 
To  bless  the  golden  grain! 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
It  says  to  the  sullen  eaves  ; 

Drip,  drip,  drip, 
And  trembles  on  the  leaves. 


60 


TOUSOULIA. 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    MOHEGAN. 

THE  Juniata  rippled  at  her  feet, 

And  like  a  fallen  giant  lay  the  sun 

Aslant  the  silent  trees.     Tousoulia 

Was   sad.      The    maiden    had    been    waiting 

through 
Three  crescent  moons ;  had  marked  them  orb 

and  go, 

Like  dreamy  Houris,  down  the  stairs  of  night 
To  bathe  in  mists  behind  the  purple  hills  ; 
And  yet  her  Indian  warrior  came 
Not  back. 

Thus  to  the  stream  that  wandered  by, 
Thus  to  the  shadows  of  the  coming  night 
Tousoulia  made  her  moan  : 


61 


"  The  autumn  has  been  breathing  on  the  leaves, 
And  burnt  them  into  redness  with  her  lips ; 
And  I  am  sadder  than  the  Whip-po-will. 

"  The  summer  birds  have  floated  to  the  south  ; 
My  lonely  heart  is  vacant  as  their  nests — 
It  shall  be  empty  till  my  Chief  comes  home  ! 

"  There  are  no  footfalls  that  can  make  me  glad, 
There  are  no  warblings  of  the  lover's  lute, 
At  eventide,  outside  the  wigwam  door. 

"  No  tender  hands  caress  me  as  they  used  ; 
Only  the  lips  of  moonbeams  kiss  my  breast ; 
And  I  am  sadder  than  the  Whip-po-will. 

"  When  wilt  thou  come  ?    and  is  the  trail  so 

long, 
Three  moons  must  stalk  between  thee  and  thy 

bride  ? 
She  waits  for  thee  as  eagerly,  Lenape, 

"  As  Earth  for  Spring  to  kiss  it  into  buds ! 
The  Bending  Lily  yearns  for  him  who  will 
Made  her  as  happy  as  a  humming  bird !" 

4 


And  softly  with  her  foot  she  stirred 
A    clump  of   water-lilies,   and   then    grew    as 

mute 
As  moulting  robins. 


Like  a  lark  that  skims 
The  outer  surface  of  cerulean 
Clouds,  shot  a  canoe  from  out  the  shadow 
Of  the  trailing  trees ;  and,  like  a  blood-hound 
On  its  mistress'  knee,  it  placed  its  long  head 
On  the  beach.     Another  and  another, 
And  a  third  ;  while  from  them  leaped  a  score  of 
Painted  braves. 


So  softly  came  they,  the  Mohegan  girl 
Perceived   them    not   till    some   dry  branches 

cracked 

^ 

Beneath  their  feet ;    then,  springing   up,    she 

threw 

Her  arms  around  the  neck  of  one  who  stalked 
Majestically  as  a  king — 'twas  not 
Lenape.     All    rich    with    blushes    she    drew 

back 

And,  at  a  distance,  followed  them  into 
The  Indian  village. 


63 


The  Council  fire 

Leaped  high  that  night ;  a  scalping  party  that 
Had  been  three  moons  away,  came  opulent 
In  deeds  and  trophies  back.     And  there  were 
Praises  and  welcomings  for  the  returned, 
Wailings  and  wild  sorrowing  for  the  dead. 


The  hungry  fire  wTas  fed  with  brushwood  ;  high 
Into  the  night  its  flaming  arms  were  stretched 
Like  one  in  prayer,     Without  the  reaches  of 
Its  radiancy  stood  Tousoulia, 
With  heart  as  full  of  tears  as  a  cloud  in 
April  time. 


Each  warrior  told  his 
Own  exploits  with  a  wild  eloquence  ;  then 
As  the  calm  of  stagnant  winds  before  the 
Lightning,  with  its  fiery  finger,  pricks 
The  swollen  cloud,  and  deluges  the  earth 
With  most  delicious  tears,  a  silence  fell 
Upon  the  plumed  and  dusky  throng.      Then, 

like 

The  moanings  of  a  distant  ocean,  broke 
Upon  a  hundred  swarthy  lips  the  name 
Of  all  natoes  that  Tousoulia  loved. 


64 


War  Eagle  rose  ;  the  hair  had  fallen  from 
His  aged  head  as  leaves  from  the  grand  oak 
In  autumn  winds.     With  a  big  heart  he  spoke  : 

"  When  the  Great  Father  scalps  the  forest  trees, 
And  we  have  laid  our  store  of  bear-meat  in, 
Our  young  men  must  take  panther  skins  and 

corn 
To  I^mhaw's  wigwam,  for  he  hath  no  son  !" 

The   speaker  paused,  and   thro'    the    stillness 

trilled 

A  laugh  so  fearful  that  the  couchant  braves 
Sprang  to  their  feet;  the  sleepy  watch  curs 

howled, 

And  frighted  squaws  drew  nearer  to  the  fire. 
Tousoulia  pressing  through  the  wildered 
Throng,  stood  by  the  crackling  fire  scornfully. 

"  The  great  Moheganis  not  dead  !"  she  cried. 
"  I  hear  the  paddles  of  his  bark  canoe 
Afar,  afar  !"  she  paused  like  one  that  hears 
A  sound  i'  the  distance.     "  He  will  come.     I'll 

wait 
For  him.     He  pants   beneath  the   weight   of 

scalps  ! 
The  great  Mohegan  is  not  dead  !" 


65 


Alas  !  in  the  too  sudden  shock  of  wo,  her  brain 
Had  lost  its  equipoise,  and  her  mind  went 
Wandering,  like  a  bird  whose  nest  has  been 
Destroyed. 

Through  weary  length  of  autumn 
Days,  she  sat  beside  the  Juniata 
Trailing  her  feet,  the  live  long  day,  among 
The  globes  of  water-lilies,  and  'twas  thus 
She  made  her  moan  unto  the  listening  wood, 
And  to  the  mouthing  wind,  and  to  the  stream 
Whose  voice  was  like  the  music  of  her  own : 

"When  wilt  thou  come?  and  is  the  trail  so  long, 
Three  moons  must  stalk  between  thee  and  thy 

bride, 
Whose  heart  is  empty  as  a  last  year's  nest  ?" 

And  to  this  day  the  spot  is  pointed  out 
Where  sat  the  maniac  girl,  and  saw  three 
Summers  drop  in  leafy  graves,  waiting  for 
Him  who  never,  never  came  to  make  her 
"  Happy  as  a  humming  bird." 


66 


A  MADRIGAL. 


Nellie's  curls  I  saw  a  rose  to-night, 
And  I  was  vexed  that  I  was  not  a  rose, 
A  captive  chained  with  ebon  chains  like  those, 
Silken  and  soft,  and  beautifully  bright. 

And  then  I  wished  myself  the  diamond  speck 
That  glittered  on  the  berther  of  her  dress, 
To  tremble  on  the  brink  of  loveliness, 

To  kiss  the  tempting  whiteness  of  her  neck. 

And  when  I  saw  that  saucy  little  foot 

Peeping  from  'neath  her  skirts  with  Sylph-like 

grace, 
She  must  have  read  the  wish  upon  my  face, 

The  silly  wish  that  I'd  been  born  a  boot ! 


67 


I  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 


"  I  MIGHT  have  been"  's  a  weary  lay 

Too  often  sang,  and  foolishly. 

With  deeper  care  on  heart  and  brain, 

More  sorrowful  and  full  of  pain 

You  might  have  been, 
You  might  have  been — 
Thank  God  for  what  you  are  ! 


You  might  have  won  a  poet's  crown, 
And  swayed  the  Janus-faced  town, 
Wringing  applauses  from  all  men  ; 
But  purer  you  might  not  have  been, 
Might  not  have  been  ; 
Truer,  you  might  not  have  been- 
Thank  God  for  what  you  are  ! 


68 


The  gentle  hand  that  clasps  your  own, 
The  lips  that  sway  you  with  a  tone, 
Death  might  have  chilled.     Go  not  alone, 
Like  the  complaining  rain,  and  moan 
"  I  might  have  been, 
I  might  have  been," — 
Thank  God  for  what  you  are  ! 


I  have  a  prayer  ;  'tis  not  to  crave 

Exemption  from  a  nameless  grave, 

Nor  fame  to  stamp  me  with  its  seal ; 

'Tis  that  I  may,  when  o'er  me  steal 

The  thoughts  of  what  I  might  have  been, 
The  thoughts  of  what  I  might  have  been, 
Thank  God  for  what  I  am. 


69 


I. 

As  falls  a  ray  of  transient  golden  light 
Through  half-shut  blinds  upon  the  darkened 

floor, 
And  leaving,  turns  the  twilight  into  night, 

Making  the  shadows  deeper  than  before  : 


ii. 

So  through  the  darkened  windows  of  my  heart 
Stole  the  warm,  transient  sunshine  of  thy  love, 
Then  left  me  darkness.     O  !  thy  cruel  art 

Hath  made  me  colder  than  a  marble  Jove. 


in. 

Think  how  cold!  when  I  can  meet  thy  glances 
Nor  feel  the  blood  pulp  warmer  in  my  veins ; 
Time,  Iconoclast !  hath  broke  my  fancies ! 

Memory,  still  a  captive,  is  in  chains. 


70 

IV. 

*  *  *  *  I  know  the  ever  restless  thought 
That  reigns  within  thee ;   that  thy  dark  eyes 

wear 
A  calm  that  happiness  has  never  brought — 

A  Resignation,  sister  to  Despair. 


v. 

Not  do  I  view  thee  as  the  passing  throng ; 
The  surface  pleases  them  :  they  do  not  probe  ; 
I  see  thy  woes  in  wit,  and  laugh,  and  song, 

Like  rotting  monarchs  in  their  ermine  robe. 


VI. 

We  are  not  married,  and  yet  not  unwed  ; 
Unwed  in  joy,  in  sorrow  we  are  one ; 
Though  far  apart,  together  we  will  tread 

A  path  thro'  life  the  twilight  falls  upon. 

VII. 

The  twilight's  on  our  faces,  and  our  lives 
Are  but  the  echoes  of  one  saddened  tune. 
Joy  sank ;  grief  rose,  all  passions  that  survives — 

The  night  outlives  its  little  silver  moon. 


71 


THE  TWO  CITIES. 


There  are  two  worlds  about  as, 
Two  worlds  in  which  we  dwell — 
Within  us  and  without  us.—  R.  H.  Stoddard. 


'TWAS  dusk,  and  from  my  window 

Upon  the  street  below 
I  saw  the  people  passing, 

Like  shadows,  to  and  fro  ; 

nd  faintly,  very  faintly 
I  heard  the  ceasing  din  ; 
And  like  the  dusk  without  me 
There  was  a  dusk  within. 


And  thoughts  with  eager  footsteps, 
Dim  thoughts  of  joy  and  pain, 

Filled  the  streets  and  by-ways  of 
The  city  in  my  brain. 


72 

A  passing  light  and  holy 
Like  that  which  softly  falls 

Through  open  gates  in  cloudlets 
Upon  cathedral  walls, 

Fell  upon  the.towers  of 

The  city  in  my  mind ; 
My  inward  sight  grew  clearer 

My  outward  vision  blind. 

Forgotten  was  the  window  ; 

There  seemed  no  street  below, 
I  did  not  see  them  passing, 

The  shadows,  to  and  fro. 

I  was  between  Two  Cities 
In  which  my  spirit  dwells  ; 

And  I  could  hear  the  chimings 
Of  two  sad  sets  of  bells 

Without  the  holy  Trinity's  ; 

And  deep  within  my  soul, 
My  heart  was  throbbing  like  a  bell 

When  it  has  ceased  to  toll ! 


73 


THE  NIGHT  WIND. 

I  FEEL,  like  weeping  when  the  dismal  Wind 
Talks  to  the  chimney  of  an  Autumn  night — 
So  strangely  talks  with  meaning  undefined — 
Or  scolds  the  forest  till  it  shrinks  in,  fright, 
And  with  its  lips  of  leaves,  all  terror  white, 
Begs  of  the  breeze  to  treat  it  less  unkind. 

To-night,  before  the  supper  lamps  were  lit, 
The  poor  wind  whistled  such  a  doleful  tune 
My  eyelids  swelled  like  rain-fed  clouds  in  June  ; 
I  drew  my  arm-chair  near  the  hearth,  to  sit 
And  form  the  embers  into  figures  quaint ; 
I  fancied  Vikings,  bridges,  castles  drear; 
But  ah !  that  Wind,  now  growing  loud,  now 

faint, 
Hung  like  a  guilty  conscience  on  my  ear. 


IMORE. 

A    LEGEND    OF    THE    MINSTREL    TIMES. 

ONE  day  while  sitting  in  the  dim  old  woods, 
Charmed  with  the  braided  notes  of  brooks  and 

birds, 

Sleep  stole  upon  him  like  a  pleasant  thought. 
His  head  was  pillowed  upon  violets, 
And  lilies  stood  on  tip-toe  to  his  lips. 
As  thus  he  slept,  an  angel  dropped  among 
The  flowerets,  the  Lady  Volant  and 
The  Earl  went  by  and  saw  him  slumbering ; 
And  ever  after  in  the  maiden's  dream, 
Was  Imore  sleeping  by  the  rivulet. 

Ah,  he  beheld  her  on  that  summer  day 
Through  the  sly  openings  of  his  roguish  eyes ; 


75 


And  she  was  queenly  as  a  budded  moon  ! 
Peerless  as  she  whose  nectared  kisses  cost 
Mark  Antony  a  kingdom  !     And  he  turned 
From  gay  to  sad,  and  haunted  the  old  wood  ; 
His  cheeks  grew  pale  as  lilies  in  a  rill ; 
He  sang  no  longer  like  a  morning  lark, 
But  hummed  around  the  lindens  like  a  bee. 


Once  Lady  Volant  loved  to  sit  and  watch 
From  Odenwald's  high  tower,  the  red  sun 
Folding  his  purple  pinions  for  the  eve, 
And  the  clear  stars  that  cluster  thick  upon 
The  arch  of  night,  like  watery  diamonds 
On  a  ring  of  jet.     But  now  she  strayed  far 
In  the  leafy  glens,  and  plucking  roses, 
Warm  with  the  parting  kiss  that  sunset  gives, 
Came  melancholy  with  the  twilight  home. 


One  eve  as  she  was  roving  thro'  the  glade, 
She  found  the  minstrel  sleeping  as  before 
Upon  a  couch  of  violets — as  once 
Diana  found  Endymion  asleep, 
Loving  him  ever  after — and  from  out 
His  parted  lips  his  breath  came  like  the  breath 
Of  hyacinths.     Then  whispered  Volant 
Softly  to  herself,  "  Methinks  I  could  such 


76 


Honied  sweetness  from  those  full  lips  draw,  as 
Does  a  bee  from  the  sweet  honeysuckle. 
Now  by  the  blood  that  circles  in  these  veins 
And  prompts  me  in  this  most  delicious  freak  ! 
I'll  taste  them,  and  if  he  awakes  I'll  swear 
That  'twas  some  spirit  kissed  him  in  his  dream, 
Not  I ;  that  I'm  the  daughter  of  an  earl 
And  would  not  stoop  to  press  a  common  lip  : 
Then  I'll  sweep  by,  majestic  as  the  Night." 


Then,  like  a  rain-bow,  she  bent  over  him, 
With  all  the  hues  of  autumn  on  her  cheeks. 
Raising  the  fringed  curtains  of  his  eyes, 
He  threw  both  arms  around  her  snowy  neck 
And  punished  her  with  kisses  !    She  drew  back 
With  angered  orbs  ;  then  blushed,  then  thro' 

the  wood 

Leaped  the  silvery  echoes  of  her  laugh. 
And  then  she  called  him  "  cruel,  cruel  boy," 
And  asked  him  if  th'e  blue-bells  did  not  close 
Their  eyes  with  envy,  when  he  looked  at  them  ; 
And  then  she  laid  her  hand  among  his  curls. 
The  evening  melted,  and   night   found   them 

there — 
Cupid  and  Psyche  wooing  in  a  wood ! 


77 


"  There  is  a  clime,"  he  said,  "  a  far  off  land 

Of  orange-bowers  and  magnolia  trees, 

With  streams  of  gold  fish  gurgling  'mong  the 

hills  ; 

Where  winter  never  throws  a  pall  upon 
The  sweet-lipped  flowerets,  and  May  and  June 
Go,  hand  in  hand,  throughout   the   live-long 

year!" 


Softly  at  night  she  left  the  castle  gate      * 
To  wander  with  the  minstrel  to  that  land 
Of  never  dying  summer  and  blue  skies. 
They  wandered  off,  and  never  more  were  seen 
By  any  swine-herd  of  those  dewy  dells, 
Nor  by  the  Dryads,  nor  the  Fauns,  nor  Fays, 
Nor  any  of  the  sylvan  train  that  dwell 
By  the  cool  fountains  of  that  haunted  wood. 


78 


FOREVER  AND  FOREVER. 


AN    IMITATION. 

SWEET  Nea  held  her  hand  in  mine, 
Beside  us  rolled  the  river ; 

"  Wilt  love  me  Nea  ?"  and  she  said 
"  Forever  and  forever." 

And  when  the  roses  blushed  again 

I  stood  beside  that  river, 
But  Nea,  darling !  she  was  gone 

Forever  and  forever. 

She  went  with  blossoms  in  the  spring, 
And  shall  I  see  her  never  ? 

Ah,  yes !  for  those  who  love,  love  on 
Forever  and  forever. 


79 


"  There  is  another  better  world," 
Where  pain  and  death  are  never  ; 

There  she  and  I  shall  live  and  love 
Forever  and  forever. 


80 


A  NEST  OF  SONNETS. 


i. 


THE  LITTLE   WITCHES  AT  THE 
CROSSINGS. 

THESE  imps  of  Want !  these  sprites  of  Poverty  ! 

That  flock  the  cross  ways  of  the  muddy  town 

With  brooms  at  ev'ry  rain,  whence  come  they, 
pray  ? 

Spring  they  from  earth,  or  do  they  tumble 
down, 

Like  animalculae,  in  drops  of  rain  ? 

How  phantom-like  tfrey  move  about  the  street ! 

Are  they  dwarf  Gnomes  fresh  from  some  cav 
ern's  brain, 

Like  those  in  Arab  legends  ?     Can  hearts  beat 

In  such  odd  creatures?  Are  they  more  than 
breath  ? 


81 

Look    at    those   skinny   out-stretched   hands ! 

Why  they 

Are  spectral  as  the  Witches  in  Macbeth  ! 
Drop  them  a  coin,  pedestrian,  thus  may 
You  win  their  good  will,  which  were  best  to 

own, 
Since  heaven  can  tell  what  elfs  these  are  alone. 


82 


n. 


PHCEBUS. 

DEW-DAPPLED  Phoebus,  with  half-shaded  eye, 
Stalks  through  the  portals  of  the  eastern  skies  ; 
The  stars  that  drop  above  the  world  on  high, 
Beneath  his  gaze  close  their  cloud-lidded  eyes  ; 
He  taps  the  dreaming  city  till  it  wakes 
And  hums  and  murmurs  like  an  o'er  turned  hive ; 
With  twit 'ring  birds  the  forest  is  alive, 
And  bends  to  see  its  shadow  in  the  lakes  ! 
In  toying  wavelets  the  soft  zephyr  breaks, 
Bearing  the  perfume  from  the  gummy  pines  ; 
Flowers,  the  drinking-cups  of  the  god-sun, 
Are  brimmed  with  dew.   His  touch  incarnadines 
The  dank  hill  tops,  and  all  it  falls  upon — 
The  reeling  grain-fields  and  the  streams  that 
run. 


83 


in. 


THE  NIGHT  RAIN. 

PITEOUS  Rain  !  0  how  it  sobs  without ! 
Driven  from  Heaven  like  a  sinning  child, 
Thrust  from  the  Gates  by  scolding  winds  and 

wild, 

It  wanders  weary,  drearily  about. 
At  me  it  peer«fch  through  the  window  panes, 
And  almost  asks  if  I  would  let  it  in — 
I'm  not  proclivous,  weeping  child  of  sin. 
Then  off  it  speeds  and  curses  and  complains ; 
Its  footfalls  sound  with  quick  and  nervous  beat 
On  dismal  miles  of  dimly-lighted  street. 
It  pauses  oft,  as  if  its  tim'rous  ear 
Had    caught    a    sound  —  'twas    only    sighing 

leaves — 

Then  rushes  onward  with  a  trembling  fear, 
And  seeks  to  hide  beneath  protruding  eaves. 


84 


IV. 


"  THANATOPSIS." 

WHEN  one  can  die  with  the  proud  consciousness 
That  he  will  'bide  forever  with  the  world, 
And  that  when  monarchs  and  their  broods  are 

hurled 

Contemptuous  down  Oblivion's  abyss, 
He  will  span  time  like  heaven's*bow  ;    God ! 

this 

Must  set  his  blood  to  boiling,  and  with  bliss 
Fill  his  king-heart  up  to  the  very  brim  ! 
Yet  I  do  know  of  a  sublimer  joy 
Possessing  which  I  would  not  envy  him — 
O  faith  !  the  alchemist  that  turns  th'  alloy 
Of  death  to  golden  calm.     'Tis  when  the  soul, 
Uncaged,  goes  singing  lark-like  thro'  the  spheres 
Confidingly  to  God,  devoid  of  fears, 
Having  on  earth  paid  Paradise  its  toll ! 


v. 


NOON. 

HE'S  chosen  the  broad  zenith  for  his  seat ; 
His  brow  is  sweaty,  and  his  sultry  breath 
Fills  the  sick  town,  and  in  the  crowded  street 
Men  and  o'er-ladened  horses  sink  in  death  ; 
In  rocky,  dewless  pastures,  close  beneath 
The  arms  of  trees  ihe  drowsy  cattle  meet ; 
The  grain  grows  dry  within  its  heated  sheath  ; 
Wild  lilac^  droop  upon  the  sunny  steep, 
And  winds  in  knolls  have  st :A'n  away  to  sleep. 
A  sense  of  something  heavy  spheres  the  air — 
As  if  the  earth  lay  in  a  horrid  trance, 
While  through   the  still   blue   heaven  with  a 

stare 
The    Noon-king   looketh,  scorching    with    his 

glance, 
Proud  as  a  lion  glaring  from  his  lair. 


VI. 


TO 


ON    HIS    BEING    UNJUSTLY    CRITICISED. 

'Tis  ever  so,  my  friend,'  when  one  would  climb 
The  rounds  of  his  ambition  up  to  fame, 
And  write,  in  blotless  characters,  his  name 
Upon  the  unrolled  manuscript  of  Time, 
There  are  some  men  who,  as  he  'tempts  to  rise, 
Will  envy  him  the  wreath  their  fate  denies, 
And  seek  to  wound  him  with  their  shafts  of 

scorn. 
There  're  many  such  that  mark  thee  on  thy 

way. 
Teach  them  this  lesson,  friend  :      He  that  is 

born 

For  greatness  will  be  great !  and  enmity 
Cannot  unmake  a  Poet. — Did  the  thorn 
That  cut  the  brow  of  Jesus  make  him  less  ? 


87 


ELEGIAC. 


HE  never  wed  with  thoughts  of  death 
Worm-eaten  hearts  and  nighty  pall, 
Nor  mystery,  like  the  writings  of 
The  fire-light's  finger  on  the  wall : 


'Twas  but  to  sink  in  fibered  earth  ; 
To  go  where  buds  and  blossoms  go 
In  winter  time,  to  rest ;  then  bloom 
Through  summers  of  eternal  flow. 


He  wrestled  nobly  with  his  fate, 
And  strove  to  mask  his  soul's  distress  ; 
He  passed,  a  spectre,  through  the  gate 
Of  death  alone  and  shadowless. 


88 


He  was  to  me  most  like  a  stream 
Which,  in  some  darkened  vein  of  earth 
Flows  thro'  its  rocky  bowels,  but 
To  daylight  never  bubbles  forth. 


89 


BERTHABELL. 


WHERE  an  ivy  vine  is  creeping, 
And  tears  of  dew-drops  weeping, 
They  tell  me  thou  art  sleeping, 
Berthabell ! 


I  have  often  sat  alone 
And  read  on  the  dark  gray  stone, 
With  green  mosses  over-grown, 
"  Berthabell." 


I  know  we  laid  thee  there, 
With  thy  forehead  cold  and  fair  ! 
But  now  thou  art  otherwhere, 
Berthabell ! 


90 

Thy  soul  stole J'orth  in  flowers, 
That  fainted  'neath  the  showers 
On  thy  grave,  in  April  hours, 
Berthabell ! 


0  !  I  nevermore  will  come 
And  be  weeping  at  this  tomb  ; 
It  is  all  too  full  of  gloom, 
Berthabell ! 


I  will  rather  seek  the  glade 
Where  the  willows  throw  their  shade, 
Where  our  shattered  vows  were  made, 
Berthabell ! 


I  will  watch  the  willow  swing, 
I  will  hear  the  streamlet  sing, 
And  kind  memory  will  bring 
Berthabell! 


91 


ABOUT  A  TINY  GIRL. 

IDA,  look  me  in  the  eyes  ! 
Place  your  tiny  lips  on  mine, 
Rest  one  arm  upon  my  brow, 
Round  my  neck  the  other  twine. 

Did  you  leave  your  house  of  blocks 
And  the  toy  that  pleases  thee ? 
Did  you  see  me  sad  and  wan 
That  you  clomb  upon  my  knee, 
Kissing  me  so  tenderly  ? 

Did  your  finer  sense  perceive 
Something  of  unhappiness  ? 
Did  your  inner  vision  see 
What  the  others  did  not  guess, 
That  you  clomb  upon  my  knee, 
Kissing  with  such  tenderness  ? 


"  Ida  loves  you  very  much," 
Don't  I  know  it,  dainty  one  ? 
There  is  not  a  single  curl, 
Tiny  curls,  like  beams  of  sun  ! 
Keeling  from  that  busy  head, 
Floating  as  a  golden  charm, 
That  I  would  not  give  my  hand, 
Or  my  life  to  save  from  harm. 

Ida,  look  me  in  the  eyes  ! 
Place  your  tiny  lips  on  mine, 
Rest  one  arm  upon  my  brow, 
Round  my  neck  the  other  twine. 


93 


THE  GENTLE   HAND. 

WHERE  trips  the  blue  Piscataqua  along  in  maiden 

glee, 
And  throws  herself  upon  the  breast  of  her  old 

lover — Sea, 
I  stood  one  August  sunset  with  a  gentle  hand 

in  mine, — 
The  sunbeams  pouring  in  the  deep  like  streams 

of  yellow  wine. 

Upon  our  right  the  old  Fort  stood,  forbidding 
as  a  frown, 

And  half  within  its  shadow  lay  the  little  dingy 
town  ; 

And  here  and  there  along  the  shore  the  fishing- 
smacks  were  hauled, 

While  boats,  like  lazy  turtles,  up  and  down  the 
river  crawled ! 


94 


The  Lighthouse  with  its  eye  of  fire  looked  o'er 
the  breakers  swell, 

Standing  all  calm  and  solemn,  like  some  watch 
ful  sentinel ; 

And  o'er  the  undulating  lands  our  stretching 
eyes  would  mark 

Old  Portsmouth's  spires  tapering  up  half-way 
to  meet  the  dark. 


Low  at  our  feet  the  ocean  broke  in  long  and 

frothy  rolls, 
And  like  a  gem  upon  its  breast  we  saw  the  Isle 

of  Shoals! 
0 !  dear  to  me  the  Fort,  the  town,  the  dimpled 

ocean's  moan, 
But  dearer  was  the  gentle  hand  I  held  within 

my  own  ! 

Like  a  lion  that  is  wounded,  but  in  scorn  dis 
dains  to  groan, 

Creeps  to  some  secretest  cavern  there  to  bleed 
and  die  alone, 

The  sun  in  sullen  majesty  was  creeping  to  his 

His  jagged  sides  a-panting  and  his  red  eye-balls 
a-glare. 


flo 


The  lovely  moon,  like  Cypris,  rose  from  out  the 
jeweled  sea, 

And  laid  her  lily  hand  upon  the  Light-house  on 
the  lee  ; 

And  touched  the  rocky  bastion  and  the  ram 
parts  of  the  Fort, 

And  ran  along  the  sleepy  guns  that  gaped  from 
ev'ry  port. 

It  was  a  moon  that  might  have  lured  the  Mer 
maids  from  their  caves, 

From  out  the  glaucous  grottoes  of  their  realms 
beneath  the  waves, 

To  sit  upon  the  sloping  strand  and  comb  from 
out  their  hair 

The  sea-weed,  and  to  have  a  chat  with  loving 
Mermen  there. 

O  !  dear  to  me  the  Fort  and  town  asleep  in  light 
divine  ; 

But  dearer  than  the  landscape  was  the  hand  I 
held  in  mine  ! 


In  brilliant,  starry  necklaces  and  bridal  sheen 
arrayed, 

The  Moon  stood  out  in  heaven  like  a  pale  un 
willing  maid ; 


96 


She  loved  the  dewy  Mgrning  with  his  yellow 

curls  of  light ; 
She's  doomed  to  wed  another  and  to  be  the 

bride  of  Night. 
I  whispered  this  to  Lillie  as  she  turned  her  eyes 

above  ; 
"'Tis  sad,"  she  said,  "'tis  very  sad  to  wed  not 

where  we  love." 


The  hand  I  pressed  too  ardently  was  drawn 
away  from  mine, 

And  eyes  were  turned  toward  me  all  bewitch 
ing  ly  divine  ; 

I  dared  to  take  that  hand  again  and  soothe  it  in 
my  own ; 

I  dared  to  steal  my  arm  around  a  half  reluctant 
zone  ; 

I  told  her  how  the  waters  kissed  the  islands  in 
their  sport, 

And we  neither  saw  the  Lighthouse,  the 

islands,  nor  the  Fort! 


97 


THE  THREE  CONCEITS. 
(PRELUDE  AFTER  TENNYSON.) 

IT  happened  on  a  summer  day  that  Hall 

And  Walter  Everland,  a  young  poet, 

And  Arthur  Thornburn  and  my  humble  self, 

Were  in  a  church-yard  near  th'  Academy, 

Reading  odd  epitaphs.     And  tired  out, 

We  stretched  ourselves  beneath  the  wedded 

boughs, 

Of  some  tall  lindens  4sy  the  river  side, 
Cheating  the  laggard  moments  of  their  prey 
Of  weariness  in  drawing  similes 
From  clouds,  and  trees,  and  rocks.     Each  one 

in  turn, 

Putting  some  question  to  the  other  three. 
Thus  when  to  me  the  lot  of  querist  fell : 


9<S 


"  What  is  this  grave-yard  like  ?"  Then  Hall  re 
plied, 

"  '  Tis  like  a  bee-hive  with  the  bees 
Dead  in  their  cells!11     And  we  grew  solemn  as 

The  shadows  of  the  linden  trees. 


"  What  is  this  grave-yard  like?"    And  Arthur 
said, 

Resting  his  eyes  upon  the  tombs, 
"  These  bodies,  lacking  souls  and  tenantless, 

Are  like  so  many  empty  rooms  /" 

"  What  is  this  grave-yard  like  ?"     And  Walter 

said, 

"  A.  flower  garden  where  are  sown 

By  Christ  the  seeds  of  many  flowerets, 

To  blossom  Resurrection  Morn  /" 


And  then  we  smiled,  and  placed  upon  his  head 
With  loving  hands  a  daisy  wreath. 

Who  looks  in  the  mild  eyes  of  Faith,  can  draw 
Sweet  fancies  from  the  realm  of  Death. 


The  twilight  coming  on  us,  we  arose ; 
They  to  their  studies  went,  I  to  my  room 


99 


To  think  of  those  three  quaint  conceits,  but  most 
Of  Walter's  ;  and  I  dropt  asleep  with  his 
Sweet  fancy  folded  in  my  heart,  and  have 
Felt  nearer  God  and  Heaven  ever  since. 


100 


EPIGRAMMATICAL. 

SIR  Criticus  just  made  a  caustic  hit, 
Though  Criticus  has  not  a  whit  of  wit. 
"  These  are  my  '  Bells,'  "  said  I.  The  critic  took 
The  volume  with  a  condescending  look, 
And  ran  his  fingers  o'er  it  here  and  there, 
As  school-boys  o'er  a  rainbow  colored  map ; 
"The  Bells,"  quoth  he;  then  grappling  with  a 

thought, 
"  Now,  by  the  gods !  Sir,  you  should  have  a 

*  cap ' 

You  may  believe,  Sir,  what  your  critic  tells, 
You  long  have  merited  '  a  cap  and  bells  !'  " 


101 


TO     SUE. 


WRITTEN  ONE   RAINY  NIGHT, 


The  Past  is  with  me,  and  I  scarcely  hear 
Outside  the  weeping  of  the  homeless  rain." 


THE  cottage  and  the  mill,  Sue,  that  crazy  talk 
ing  mill 

.Whose  hand  caresses  carelessly  the  wanton, 
romping  rill ! 

The  olden  bridge  above,  and  the  music  flow 
beneath  ; 

The  eddies,  and  the  stars  that  came  to  join  the 
water- wreath ; 

The   trains   from   distant   towns,   Sue,  whose 

shriekings  startle  night ; 
That  looming  factory  hard  by  with  window  eyes 

of  light ; 


102 


The  grave-yard  near  the  Oaks,  Sue,  the  breezes 

and  their  sighs  ; 
The  clouds  that  read  the  epitaphs  with  their 

dilating  eyes ! 

The  ruined  Fort  that  stands,  Sue,  and  frowns 

so  in  the  night, 
Where  meets  Piscataqua  and  toys  with  Ocean's 

lips  of  white ; 
The  moon-light  walks  we've  had  and  the  walks* 

without  a  moon, 
Thro'  woods  stuck  full  of  rosy  eyes  by  airy- 

ankled  June ! 

• 

The  gleaming  of  your  eyes,  Sue,  the  floating 

of  your  hair, 
The  echoes  of  your  lips  that  trill  and  faint 

upon  the  air, 
They  all  come  back  to-night,  Sue,  they  all  come 

back  to-night ; 
My  eyes  behold  the  dusty  Past  and  Memory 

holds  the  light. 

The  unforgiving  winds,  Sue,  torment  the  tender 

rain ; 
A  storm's  without,  I  heed  it  not — I'm  with  you 

once  again ! 


103 


ANACREONTIC. 


i. 


THE  gleam  that  lies 

In  Fannie's  eyes, 
And  vainly  tries  to  hide  its  glow, 

Has  scarce  to  me 

More  witchery 

Than  that  within  my  chalice  now. 
The  bubbles  rise  and  wink  like  eyes, 
Like  woman's  eyes  divinely  glow  ! 


ii. 

Come  let  me  press  thy  ruby  lips, 

My  Goblet !  lips  of  wine  ! 
Glide  through  my  soul  and  flood  my  brain 

With  images  divine  ! 


104 

Who  would  not  kiss 

A  lip  like  this 
Since  every  kiss  a  care  dispels  ? 

Each  sweeter  far 

Than  dew-drops  are, 
Or  honey  in  the  lily-bells. 


in. 


Mythology  !     By  heaven  there  is 

No  heathen  god  but  one ! 
My  vine-browed  Bacchus,  purple-mouthed  ! 
Astride  his  royal  tun  ! 

I  am  to-night 

His  proselyte, 
And  wrong  or  right  I'll  crown  him  king ; 

And  I  will  quaff 

A  song,  a  laugh 
From  each  fresh  bowl  our  Hebes  bring. 


IV. 


When  dark-eyed  Grief  would  fill  my  eyes 

With  tears  unto  the  brim, 
The  Lethe  of  my  woe  I  find 

Beneath  this  goblet's  rim. 


105 

O  !  who  would  wear 

A  brow  of  care 
When  we  can  share  a  cup  like  this  ? 

What  eye  should  grow 

Down-cast  with  woe 
When  wine  can  pack  a  heart  with  bliss  ? 


v. 


Fate  knows  when  we  may  meet  again, 

My  merrie  friends  and  true  ; 
Then  let's  dissolve  our  souls  in  Hock, 

As  clouds  dissolve  in  dew. 
Come,  let  us  press  those  ruby  lips, 

Our  goblet's  lips  of  wine  ! 
And  flood  our  souls  and  throng  our  brains 
With  images  divine ! 

Who  would  not  kiss 
A  lip  like  this 

Since  every  kiss  a  care  dispels  ? 
Each  sweeter  far 
Than  dew-drops  are 
Or  honey  in  the  lily-bells  ! 


106 


WITH  THE  STARS  AND  THE  STRIPES 
AROUND  HIM. 


"We  found  him  as  he  had  fallen  from  his  horse,  his  sword  still  firmly 
grasped  in  his  hand,  and  the  flag  he  had  died  defending,  drawn  across  his 
breast.  He  looked  as  though  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  expecting  every  mo 
ment  to  be  roused  by  a  call  to  arms.  There  was  not  a  clear  eye  among 
us,  when  one  of  his  friends  severed  two  ringlets  from  the  many  that  clus 
tered  on  his  forehead,  to  "  send  home  "  to  his  mother  and  betrothed.  He 
was  buried  as  he  was  found — the  flag,  the  sword,  the  soldier,  in  one  grave  !" 
— Letters  from  the  Rio  Grande. 


LET  him  lie  i'  the  dark  narrow  grave  you  have 
made, 

Let  him  lie,  as  when  dead,  you  found  him ; 
Let  him  sleep  with  his  hand  on  the  dinted  .blade, 

And  the  stars  and  the  stripes  around  him ! 
But  first'cut  a  lock  from  his  long  chestnut  hair 

For  one  that  the  hero  left  weeping ; 
And  another  "  send  home,"  and  with  them  tell 
where 

The  son  and  the  lover  are  sleeping. 


107 


When  long  winter  nights,  at  the  home  of  his 

birth, 

Are  shortened  with  legend  and  story, 
Some  voice  in  the  household  will  tell  of  his 

worth, 

And  speak  of  his  death  and  his  glory  ; 
And   fancy  will   picture   the   place  where  he 

sleeps, 

Beside  him  the  blue  winding  river, 
The  long  sloping   flats  where    the   chaparral 

sweeps, 
And  Summer  breathes  softly  forever. 

The  mother  will  weep  as  she  thinks  of  "  her 
boy," 

The  ties  that  so  tenderly  bound  him  ; 
But  the  lad  at  her  side  will  think  'twere  a  joy 

To  sleep  with  a  banner  around  him ! 
And  she,  the  dark-eyed  and  the  beautiful  one, 

Who  wraited  so  long  for  her  lover, 
Will  fall  asleep  tearful,  and  dream  until  morn 

Of  the  joys  and  the  love-meetings  over. 

When  another  shall  kneel  at  the  feet  of  the  fail- 
To  win  her  with  sighs  and  with  vowing, 

She'll  tell  him  her  heart,  as  he  pleading  kneels 

there, 
Is  tombed  where  a  river  is  flowing. 


108 


The  ringlet  you  cut  from  the  pale  marble  brow 
Of  our  comrade,  warrior-hearted, 

She'll  press  to  her  lips,  and  remember  her  vow 
Of  faith  to  the  dear  one  departed. 

Lead  the  war-horse  back  to  the  cool  hazel-hurst 

Where  the  mild  Merrimack  is  roving  ; 
When  his  eye  grows  dim  he'll  be  tenderly  nurst 

By  those  that  will  never  cease  loving. 
Lead  the  war-horse  back  !     There's  a  horrible 
stain 

On  the  saddle  seat,  ah,  and  gory ! 
'Tis  the  heart's  blood  of  one  for  his  Country 
slain — 

Death,  death  is  the  price  of  all  glory  ! 

Let  him  sleep  by  the  wave  of  the  Eio  Grande 

With  no  proud  sculptured  urn  above  him, 
There  are  tablets  enough  in  his  own  dear  land, 

The  sorrowing,  sad  hearts  that  love  him. 
Let  him  lie  i'  the  dark  narrow  grave  you  have 
made, 

Let  him  lie  as  when  dead,  you  found  him, 
Let  him  sleep  with  his  hand  on  the  dinted  blade 

And  the  stars  and  the  stripes  around  him  ! 


109 


THE  LACHRYMOSE. 


"Beauty  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air, 
Our  present  sunsets  are  as  rich  in  gold 
As  ere  the  Iliad's  music  was  out  rolled." 


THIS  World's  as  beautiful  to-day  as  when 
It  dropped  fresh  from  the  fingers  of  a  God ! 
The  Philomel  makes  heavenly  the  night, 
And  Roses  bring  a  blush  to  earth's  great  cheeks 
Each  summer  time.  The  sun  has  not  grown  dim. 
The  same  wild  breezes  sweep  our  Southern  vales, 
And  wake  rough  music  on  th'  Atlantic's  wave 
That  brushed  the  dew-drop  from  the  crocus  leaf 
In  Eden's  solitude.     I  cannot  see 
That  earth  is  tired  out,  and  wrinkled  like 
An  aged  face  ;  that  it  has  fallen  in 
The  "  sere  and  yellow  leaf."     I  think  that  it 
Is  vastly  young,  and  destined  yet  to  swing 
Some  thirty  thousand  centuries  in  air  ! 
c 


110 


Perdition  catch  these  lachrymosic  bards 
That  moan  forever  about  weary  earth 
And  sea !  as  if  their  dismal  dactyles  could 
Improve  it  much.    There  is  one  poet  who 
Has  risen  up  like  a  great  rocket  with 
A  burst  of  stars,  he's  going  to  "  tinker"  it ! 
Kind  heaven  help  him  !  'twere  a  pretty  job  ! 
For  my  own  part  I  am  content  if  I 
Can  tinker  joy,  making  it  water-proof 
To  keep  out  Tears !     As  to  all  theories 
And  schism  and  the  like,  I  do  bequeath 
Them  unto  learned  heads.     A  Poet  can 
Do  much  by  writing  purely,  but  far  more 
By  living  as  he  writes.     Who  would  reform 
The  world,  let  him  reform  himself,  teaching 
By  example  more  than  precept. 

Now  I, 

Who  am  no  Bard,  but  a  mere  poetling, 
A  "ballad  monger"  stringing  fancies  on 
A  thread  of  rhyme,  a  literary  bee 
Humming  round  the  world  and  drawing  sweet 
ness 

From  it,  I a  poet  be  it  written 

Of  the  ephemeral  sort,  who,  dying, 
Would  be  missed  about  as  much  as  yonder 
Butterfly do  not  think  myself  better 


Ill 


Than  my  neighbor,  but  I've  faith  enough  to 
Trust  the  unseen  hands  that  toss  the  ocean 
Up,  those  hands  that  garner  whirlwinds  i'  the 

air, 
With  tinkering  this  leaky  world  ! 


112 


THE  OLD  HOUSE.* 

THE  Old  House  stands  alone, 

A  queer  and  crumbling  pile, 

And  though  its  shattered  gables  tell — 

Faintly,  like  the  pulses  of  a  bell — 

Of  days  and  years,  mayhap  of  centuries  flown, 

I  cannot  help  but  smile. 

The  Old  House  stands  alone, 

Over  the  windows  and  the  oaken  door, 

There's  something  in  the  mouldings  that's  so 

quaint ; 

No  knocker  rings  upon  those  pannels  more  ; 
Some  urchin  wrung  it  off ! 
In  these  degenerate  days  an  urchin  is  no  saint, 
But  dares  to  laugh  and  scoff 
At  things  that  bear  the  holy  taint, 
And  impress  of  the  Past. 

*  The  mansion  of  the  late  Hon.  Theodore  Atkinson,  Court 
street,  Portsmouth,  N.  H. 


113 


Its  windows  boast  not  one  whole  pane  of  glass  ; 
And  tho'  it  pains  me,  let  it  still  be  said 
That  I  have  broken  many  a  square,  alas  ! 
My  heart  has  since  its  reparation  made. 
I'm  grieving  now  I  ever  threw  a  stone  ; 
They  used  to  graze  the  damp  discolored  walls, 
And  wake  the  sleeping  echo  in  the  halls 
And   that   would   go  from  room  to  room  and 

moan. 

Besides,  the  windows  always  blushed  so  red, 
When  Sunset  stooped  to  catch  the  winged  gulls, 
Or  stripped  him,  shameless,  for  his  ocean  bed  ; 
But  now  they  seem  like  eyeless  skulls 
Of  some  poor  mortals  dead  ! 

That  structure  seems  ideal ! 

There's  such  an  indistinctness  in  its  form, 

I  sometimes  doubt  if  really  it  be  real. 

So  oft  its  roof  hath  felt  the  drenching  storm, 

So  oft  it  has  been  danced  upon  by  hail, 

That  contour  seems  washed  out ! 

And  when  I  view  it  'tis  with  half  a  doubt, 

As  dimly  through  a  veil. 

That  ancient  House  might  tell  a  startling  tale 
Could  its  cracked  wainscots  and  dark  closets 
speak ; 


114 


A  tale  to  make  the  laughing  lip  turn  pale 
And  send  the  heart's  blood  bubbling  to  the 

cheek. 

Ere  I  was  born,  when  my  grandsire  was  young, 
A  legend  curious,  rather  wild  withall, 
Around  that  lonely  mansion  hung  ; 
And  at  some  future  time, 
Should  I  possess  the  quantity  of  rhyme, 
That  legend  shall  be  sung. 

Those  chambers  drear,  deserted  save  by  storms, 
Shall  hear  again  the  pleading  Lover's  sigh  ; 
I'll  clutch  the  Past !  bring  back  its  phantom 

forms, 

And  light  with  passion  many  an  orbless  eye. 
From  disused  graveyards  of  this  dear  old  town, 
I'll  drag  the  helpless  and  long  slumbering  dead ; 
With  plumes  I'll  deck  full  many  a  fleshless  head, 
With  clanking  spurs  full  many  a  fleshless  heel ; 
Marshall  the  dead  in  some  undying  fight, 
Robe  them  in  silks  as  if  for  banquet  night — 
The  flippant  Fop,  the  Warrior  in  his  steel ! 


O,  let  me  tell  thee  one  thing,  trembling  House  ! 
That  in  thy  days  of  former  pomp  gone  by, 


115 


When  light  feet  danced  where  crawls  secure  the 

mouse, 

And  thy  bare  walls  were  hung  with  drapery — 
I  tell  thee  truly — when  thy  haunted  halls 
Were  scenes  of  Bridal,  Birth,  and  Revelry, 
And  Funeral  wails  resounded  in  thy  walls, 
None  in  those  hours  of  pain  and  joy  gone  by 
Could  love  thee  then  more  fondly  now  than  I. 


lili 


MY  HIGHLAND  MARY. 


How  sweetly  comes  the  picture  now  ! — 
The  breathless  wood,  that  August  noon, 
When  'mong  the  panting  leaves  you  sang 
"  Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon  /" 
The  very  streamlets,  gurgling  low, 

On  happy  ways  did  tarry, 
And  whispering  zephyrs  ceased  their  sighs 

To  hear  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

And  when  the  evening  touched  the  trees, 
And  we  turned  homeward,  you  and  I, 
I  blush  to  own  "  a  body"  kissed 
"  A  body,"  "Coming  thro'  the  Rye!" 
The  very  streamlets,  gurgling  low, 

On  happy  ways  did  tarry, 
And  whispering  zephyrs  ceased  their  sighs 

To  hear  iny  Highland  Mary  ! 


117 


Was  ever  moon  more  milky  white, 
Did  ever  stream  have  softer  swells, 
Than  when  at  Sagamore  I  heard 
The  music  of  "Those  Evening  Bells!" 
Ah,  memory  calls  each  cadence  back 
And  trembles  with  a  dim  delight ; 
And  Fancy  listens  till  it  hears 
The warblings  of  that  "  Stilly  Night!" 
The  very  streamlets,  gurgling  low, 

On  happy  ways  did  tarry, 
And  whispering  zephyrs  ceased  their  sighs 

To  hear  my  Highland  Mary  ! 


118 


TWILIGHT  IDYL. 


How  softly  comes  the  Evening  down 
And  weds  the  vapors  of  the  town  ! 
Bending  o'er  its  tumult  wild 
As  above  her  restless  child 
Bends  the  mother,  singing  lowly 
Some  refrain  of  melancholy. 


n. 


Voices  heard  at  twilight  hour 
Have  a  deep,  a  touching  power  ; 
Distant  sounds  seem  clearer,  nearer, 
And  the  Dead  are  nearer,  dearer  ! 
Forms  and  faces  seem  to  wear 
Touches  of  diviner  air> 


119 

in. 

'Neath  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
Flowers  pale,  and  droop,  and  swoon, 
Truant  streams  steal  out  of  glens, 
Over  violet-scented  fens, 
Through  the  tall  grass  of  the  meadow, 
Throwing  back  D  ana's  shadow. 


TV. 


The  phantom  fingers  of  the  Breeze 
Play  upon  the  slumberous  trees 
Their  wondrous,  untaught  minstrelsy  ! 
Making  every  leaf  a  key  ! 
Every  twig  a  flat  or  sharp  ! 
Every  sycamore  a  harp ! 


v. 


The  music  voice  of  distant  rills 
Humming  in  the  hearts  of  hills 
Steals  upon  me  like  a  stream 
Of  music  thro'  a  saddened  dream, 
Or,  as  with  a  murmuring  breath 
Thoughtful  memory  whispereth. 


120 

VI. 

And,  more  charming  than  the  chimes 
Floating  through  a  poet's  rhymes, 
From  the  hill-brows  and  the  dells 
Comes  a  tinkling  tongue  that  tells 
Of  grazing  herd,  while  from  the  hill 
Pipes  the  plaintive  Whip-po-will ! 


VII. 

The  Evening  comes  as  softly  down 
Upon  my  heart  as  on  the  town  ; 
Bends  above  its  tumult  wild 
As  above  her  restless  child 
Bends  the  mother,  singing  lowly 
Some  refrain  of  melancholy. 


121 


THE  GOLDEN   ISLAND. 


i. 

I  KNOW  an  Island  sitting  in  the  sea, 

As  stately  as  a  God  ! 

With  great  blue  waves  forever  at  its  feet 

Cringing  like  worshipers  ! 

And  when  the  crowned  sun 

Urges  his  hot  steeds  thro'  the  gates  of  day, 

A  golden  shower  falls  on  it  the  while. 

Queen  Cleopatra  never  bore 

A  brighter  jewel  on  her  bosom's  swell 

Than  seems  this  Island  sitting  in  the  sea. 


ii. 

And  when  the  coy  young  Moon 

Becomes  enamored  of  her  beauty  in  the  wave, 


122 


As  did  Narcissos  in  the  minstrel's  rhyme — 
That  sea-kist  isle  is  flushed  with  silver  light, 
And  Beauty  like  a  spirit  haunteth  it. 
O  !  it  was  grand  of  April  nights  to  hear 
That  strange  old  ocean  talking  to  himself! 
Though  Autumn  blasts  have  filled  them  since, 
My  ears  still  hold  the  silver  strains 
Of  those  wind-ditties  that  all  summer  haunt 
That  Golden  Island  sitting  in  the  sea. 


in. 

I've  but  to  close  my  eyes,  and  I  behold 
Those  curving  wavelets  in  the  cold  moonlight, 
Tumbling  above  each  other  on  the  shore, 
Showing  the  stars  their  red  phosphoric  veins  ! 
O  sprite  of  Thought !  thy  dainty  fingers  wipe 
The  city's  dust  from  out  my  blinded  eyes. 
Like  Him  that  called  dead   Lazarus  from  the 

tomb, 

Thou  call'st  "  Come  forth  !"  and  lo  ! 
The  buried  Past  lifts  up  its  coffin  lid, 
And  stalketh  forth  with  dust  upon  his  brow  ! 
Twelve  of  the  eighteen  Summers  of  my  life, 
Like  Twelve  white  Maidens  tending  on  a  Queen, 
Stand,  flower-decked,  round  Memory  ! 
0,  thou  fine  sprite  !  what  treasures  thou  hast 

piled 


In  the  mind's  store-house  !  Memory  unlocks 
The  tomb  of  the  departed  Years,  arid  shows 
Them  in  their  royalty  stretched  out  like  Kings  ! 
O  !  sweet  the  pictures  that  she  brings  to  me — 
Dim  wroods  with  pulses  of  a  scented  wind, 
And  twilight  shadows  hanging  on  the  trees 
Like  birdlings  half  asleep  ! 
And  forms  and  faces  that  in  soul-land  move  ; 
But  dearer  than  the  first  of  these, 
That  Golden  Island  setting  in  the  sea. 


IV. 


is  a  king  there, 
And  his  rough-tuned  lips 
Voice  sea-born  melodies  for  Neptune's  ear  ! 
And  Echo's  hoyden  daughters  sit 
Upon  the  rocks,  and  mimic  ocean, 
Who  moans  all  the  wrhile,  like  an  old  man 
Whose  years  have  led  him  to  the  gate  of  Death; 
The  sea-gulls  screech  around  it, 
And  the  lark  above 

Hangs  a  sweet  drop  of  music  in  the  air  ! 
O  !  'tis  a  spot  fit  for  a  Deity, 
Grand  as  the  isles  of  the  Hesperides, 
That  Golden  Island  sitting  in  the  sea. 


THE    BAED. 

QuAENT-thoughted  Rumor  whispered  of  a  Name, 
And  said  that  Fame  had  set  another  star 
Within  the  glorious  galaxy  that  brows 
Old    England's   forehead  !    and  that    she    had 

paused, 

And  had  been  listening  to  a  Titan  bard 
Attentively  as  Summer  to  the  Wren  ! 
It  spake  of  one,  a  child  of  Penury, 
In  whose  veins  ran  red  blood  as  beautiful 
As  pulses  of  the  purple  wine  ;  his  song 
As  the  full  gushes  of  a  ripening  soul — 
Rare  music  drops  wrung  out  by  anguish  from 
A  heart  sphered  with  humanity,  a-flush 
With  inward  Spring,  and  drunk  with  love  of  this 
Dear  World.     One  that  made  Fate  a  menial, 
And  with  a  holy  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Rose  from  obscurity  above  his  peers 
Like  a,  full  rnoon  that  leaves  a  dismal  swamp 
And  sits  in  heaven  'mong  the  stars  and  night! 


125 


Not  long  I  waited  for  the  winds  to  waft 
This  freighted  soul  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave ; 
For  soon  the  Western  Hemisphere  bursts  forth 
In  murmurs,  like  a  Memnon  touched  at  morn. 
And  well  I  knew  that  proud  Columbia  hailed 
Another  son  of  song,  and  stretched  her  hands 
To  laurel  him.     His  Book  came  ;  and  I  felt 
The  Passion  that  ran  through  it  like  a  vein, 
Was  born  of  Genius,  and  that  the  skill 
Which  flung  his  fevered  being  into  song, 
Would  write  his  name  upon  the  hearts  of  men 
In  characters  Time's  finger  cannot  blot. 


I  read  and  read  until  my  heart  was  flushed 
With  a  new  pleasure  ;  a  diviner  Light 
Came  on  me,  and  its  golden  fingers  touched 
My  being  into  tears,  as  the  lightning 
Breaks  a  cloud  and  ravishes  its  wealth  of 
Rain.     I  read  and  read,  and  tho'  my  eyes  grew 
Dim  with  weariness,  my  soul  still  thirsted 
For   those    draughts    of  thought    inspiring  as 

Wine ! 

And  all  one  summer  day  I  bent  above 
His  book,  like  a  pale  lily  o'er  a  stream, 
And  saw  my  own  heart-fancies  mirrored  on 
His  page  with  wilder  beauty.     .     .     . 


126 


I  read  arid  read  until  the  day  and  dusk 

In  married  colors  flooded  through  the  blinds, 

And  darkness  laid  his  black  hand  on  the  page. 

And  with  the  taper  burning  at  my  side, 

The  Midnight  came  upon  me  ere  I'd  done 

With  stars  like  drops  of  fire  upon  her  breast  I 

I  turned  to  look  at  them  and  wondered  why 

Such  God-like  beauty  doomed  the  sinful  world. 

I  thought  of  those  great  souls  that,  dying,  leave 

Behind  the  shadow  of  their  godliness ; 

Who  wrestled  all  their  lives  with  some  great 

Wrong, 

As  Jacob  did  with  the  mysterious 
Angel  one  long  still  night  at  Penuel. 
Dear  God !  when  will  Contention  come  and  sleep 
In  the  soft  lap  of   Peace  ?      And  when  shall 

Eight 

Throw  off  its  galling  chains,  as  in  the  spring 
The  brooks  leap  from  their  icy  manacles 
With  an  exuberance  of  joy  ?     Dear  God  ! 
When /this  is  so,  shall  not  the  Sun  go  down 
Upon  the  world  with  a  great  flushing  light, 
And  rise  amid  a  chorus  of  the  stars 
In  Paradise  ? 


127 


HOPE. 

AN    EXCERPT    FROM   AX    AXCIEXTE    RIME. 

WHEN  from  darke  chaos  was  create  ye  earthe, 
When  firste  ye  sun  glowed  from  its  heighte, 
When  Nature  gave    ye    pond'rou*   mountains 

birthe, 

And  peerless  Daye  succeeded  lovelie  Nighte, 
When  planates  glowed  tho'  brighte  in  day,  ye 

colde 
Dotted  ye  mantle  stretched  from  pole  to  pole. 

'Twas  then  that  Hope  with  calm  cerulean  eye, 
Ne  decked  in  statelie  robes  of  Pride, 

Descended  from  her  throne  on  highe 

And  sought  alike  ye  rich  and  poor  man's  side, 

To    soothe   his  woe  and    bluntkeen    miserie's 
barbe, 

And  clothe  ye  Future  in  a  brighter  garbe. 


128 


She  woke  ye  slumbering  Genius,  bade  him  rise  ; 

From  Sorrow's  eye  she  wiped  ye  falling  tear, 
Smiled  sweetlie  on  Ambition's  soaring  eyes, 

And  hovered  even  o'er  Death's  gloomy  bier. 
Who    ceased    to  smile    she    bade    them    smile 

agayne 
And  in  anticipation,  banished  present  payne  ! 


129 


LILLYAN. 

O,  dreamy-eyed  maiden  ! 
With  Peri  beauty  laden, 
Lillyan  !  did  thy  southern  skies 
Blend  those  sea-shell  dyes 
On  thy  soft  cheeks,  Lillyan  ? 

Lillyan  sits  through  April  noons 
In  the  shadow  of  the  eaves 

Twining  flowerets  in  her  hair  : 

I  would  be  the  crumpled  leaves 
On  the  breast  of  Lillyan ! 
Dainty  Lady  Lillyan. 

Her  sweet  face  haunts  me  where  I  rove, 
Her  sunny  glances  bless  me, 
Her  gentler  smiles  caress  me, 

And,  0  !  my  soul's  a-flush  with  love 
Of  that  sad  gipsy,  Lillyan. 


130 

Lillyan  in  a  place  of  flowers 
Slept  one  summer  day  ; 
Lillyan  did  not  hear  my  footsteps 
As  I  passed  that  way ; 

And,  I  wis, 

I  planted  a  long  nectared  kiss 
Upon  the  lips  of  Lillyan, 
'  The  rare-ripe  lips  of  Lillyan  ! 

And  she  oped  her  frighted  eyes 

With  a  glance  of  scorn, 
For  the  proudest  little  Lady 

That  was  ever  born 
Is  this  self-same  Lillyan, 
This  dainty  darling  Lillyan. 

Like  a  shattered  April  rainbow 
Up  the  skies,  I  saw  the  blood  go 

Through  the  cheeks  of  Lillyan  ; 

And  then  kneeling  at  her  feet, 

"  Did  the  kiss  I  gave  thee,  Sweet, 

Fall  on  those  red  lips  with  such  pain  ?" 

She  said  "  Yes  !  take  it  back  again." — 

O  !  that  roguish  Lillyan. 


iv.  SCENE  or  BLANCHETTE. 


133 


BLANCHETTE. 


SCENE  IV.  A  road  by  the  church-yard  of  ELD  ;  the  town  and 
the  Castles  of  CRAIGE  and  EDENWOLD  seen  in  the  distance. — 
BLANCHETTE  and  IVAN  sitting  near  the  gate. 


BLANCHETTE. 

Wilt  thou  not 

Finish,  Ivan,  the  sad  tale  that  thou  wert 
Telling  me  last  eve  ?     I  feel  my  path 
Has  been  a  bridge  of  flowers,  when  I  think 
Of  thy  captivity. 

IVAN. 
Where  left  I  off? 


134 


BLANCHE TTE. 

'Twas  where  they  dragged  thee  in  a  noisome 

cave 

After  the  battle,  faint  with  heavy  chains, 
And  streaked  with  thine  own  blood. 

IVAN. 

0,  let  the  Past 

Sleep  in  a  shroud  !     Why  should  we  ever  strew 
The  thorns  of  olden  sorrows  on  our  way — 
The  memory  of  wilted  hopes — when  joys 
Of  present  blossoming,  like  roses,  wait 
For  plucking  ? 

BLANCHE TTE. 

It  is  these  sombre  phases 

Of  our  lives  that  make  the  bright  seem  brighter. 
In  the  soft  blending  of  the  light  and  shade 
All  of  the  limner's  cunning  lies.     We  find 
No  joy  till  we  have  had  a  twilight  on 
The  heart.     We  cannot  see  the  sun,  'less 
It  is  partly  dimmed  with  clouds,  for  it  would 
Dazzle  us.     And  if  bliss  should,  like  rivers, 
Ever  through  our  beings  leap,  we  would  grow 
Surfeited  and  sick,  like  pet  canaries 
Fed  on  lucious  sweets.     Is  it  not  so  ? 


135 


IVAN. 

O,  thou  canst  see  God's  hand  in  sunshine  and 
In  shade  !     To  thee,  whose  spirit  wears  on  earth 
A  pure  touch  of  heaven's  divinity, 
Those  things  are  plain,  that  unto  coarser  souls 
Seem  swathed  in  darkness.     O  my  better  heart ! 
My  soul-philosopher  !  teach  me  thy  faith, 
Thy  subtle  faith,  that  sees  in  every  wo 
An  Angel  masking  or  a  Joy  disguised ! 

BLAXCHETTE. 

Wilt  thou  not  tell  the  tale  ?    'Tis  such  a  one 
As  should  be  told  at  sunset,  when  the  clouds 
Turn  their  flushed  faces  on  departing  day, 
And  then  grow  sad  and  sadder  by  degrees, 
As  the  great  orb  hides  underneath  the  earth  ! 
Tell  me  it  quickly  !  or  the  dusk  will  set 
Its  signet  on  the  zenith,  and  the  night 
Will  cap  it  with  a  moon. 

IVAN. 

'Twas  a  great  cave 

Where  sunbeams  never  were,  and  night  and  day 
Were  one  ;  full  of  dark  precipices, 
Yawning  and  moaning  ever,  and  deep  streams 


136 


Writhing  and  squirming,  like  black  serpents, 

'mong 

Stalagmites  centuries  old.     Echo  roamed 
Through  all  the  caverns  like  a  demon  king, 
With  lips  brimful  of  startling  cadences. 
In  the  unearthly  light  of  burning  brands, 
Forms,  more  horrible  than  those  of  Comus 
And  his  crew,  dug  in  the  rocky- veined  ribs 
And  in  the  bowels  of  their  prison  house, 
Bringing  forth  precious  jewels.  Men  were  there 
Who  never  saw  the  sun,  nor  felt  the  breath 
Of  evening  on  their  cheeks.     Born  in  that  realm 
Of  Cerberus,  at  tales  of  planates  poised 
In  viewless  air ;  earth's  ragged  cloak  of  snow  ; 
The  Sister  Months,  and  crystal  tides,  and  ships 
They'd  ope  their  eyes  with  wonderment ;  and 

birds 

With  hearts  of  melody  were  myths  to  them. 
Here  did  I  dwell  the  long  and  lonely  years ; 
The  hours  went  by  as  slow  and  sombrely 
As  funeral  trains — each  bore  a  dead  hope 
With  it.     Even  now,  in  this  rich  moment 
Of  serenest  bliss,  the  thoughts  of  that  drear 
Cave,  fall  on  my  heart  like  clouds,  darkening  it. 
I'll  not  let  these  cold  and  clammy  mem'ries 
Finger  the  gilt  from  off  this  golden  hour  ! 
No  more !  no  more  !  I'm  all  too  weary,  love, 
Of  this  dark  episode  in  my  heart's  Life ! 


BLANCHE TTE. 

What !  leave  it  all  unfinished  like  a  strain 
Of  music  broken  by  the  wind  ?  Oh,  no  ! 
Tell  what  kind  angel  took  thee  by  the  hand 
And  through  those  palaces,  stalactite  hung, 
Led  thee  to  rosy  daylight  and  to  me. 

IVAN. 

An  angel !  Ah,  thou  sayest  rightly,  for 

It  was.     If  ever  God  sent  angel  to 

This  earth,  Madeue  was  one.     A  miner's  child, 

Born  in  the  rocky  navel  of  that  cave, 

She  grew  up  with  strange  thoughts,  wild  joys, 

and  tears 

Ran  thro'  her  being  like  rare  music  thro' 
A  dream.     Her  soul  lay  in  her  hazel  eyes 
Like  a  white  lily  in  a  brook.     There  was 
An  atmosphere  of  purity  around 
Her,  and  of  love,  a  tenderness,  a  grace 
That  loving  nature  robed  her  with,  not  art. 
She  was  a  star  in  that  dark  spot,  a  light 
Gilding  the  darkness. 

BLANCHETTE. 

And  you  loved  her? 


138 


IVAN. 

Very  much.     She  nursed  me  in  my  sickness 
With  the  gentlest  care,  and  sang  low  songs 
And   soothed  me   like  a  child.     'Tis  not  'mid 

thrones 

And  palaces  we  find  the  noblest  hearts. 
Costlier  diamonds  are  hid  in  the  earth 
Than  ever  yet  have  decked  a  coronal. 
In  the  lone  paths  and  by-ways  of  this  world, 
Souls,  rich  in  their  own  wealth,  spring  up  arid 

die 

Like  flowerets  unnoticed.     She  was  one 
That  shall  make  heaven  beautiful,  and  earth 
Is  lovelier  while  she  lives.     Through  weary, 
Weary  nights  and  days  o'  pain  she  tended  me. 
When  strength  returned,  my  grateful  lips  were 

filled 
With   language ;  but   how  beggared   'twas   to 

clothe 

The  promptings  of  my  soul.     I  spoke  to  her 
Of  "home" — "  dear  home"  framed  like  a  pic 
ture  in 

My  thought ;  of  one  that  waited  for  me,  with 
Heart-trembles  and  most  anxious  eyes  ;  and  she 
Would  drink  my  words  in  with  a  thirsty  ear. 
When  thro'  the  toil  of  day,  I'd  sit  me  down 
Upon  the  margent  of  some  inky  stream, 


139 


Hearing  it  echo  through  the  dull  deaf  caves, 
She'd  find  me  ever,  and  sit  at  my  feet. 
Once,  as  I  told  her  of  thee,  Blanch,  starting 
From  out  a  seeming  reverie,  she  cried, 
"  Tell  me  no  more  of  this  dark-tressed  one  ! 
I  love  thee,  stranger  of  the  outer  world  ! 
Have  loved  since  first  our  glances  met ;  my 

mouth 

Has  burned  upon  thy  forehead  in  thy  sleep ; 
Mine  eyes  have  fed  on  thee  while  wrapped  in 

dreams !" 

"  0,  say  not  so,"  I  whispered,  "  say  not  so  ! 
Thou  art  much  dearer  to  me  than  my  life  ; 
'Twere  thine  could  it  but  serve  thee  ; — but  my 

love — 

I  beg  thee  do  not  ask  it."     Her  hand  fell 
Coldly   on    my  own.      "  'Twas    a    wild,  wild 

dream," 

She  said,  "but  over  now.     We  will  no  more 
Of  it.     From  this  time  forward  I  have  one 
Great  aim  in  life — thy  liberty  ;  for  she 
Thou  lovest  must  be  worthy  thee."     I  could 
Have  worshiped  her,  so  full  of  holiness 
She  seemed,  so  full  of  paradise.     Blanchette, 
I  do  believe  this  world  is  linked  to  that 
Next  better  world  by  souls  like  her's. 


1)0 


BLANCHETTE. 

And  I. 

She  must  have  fallen  through  the  fingers  of 
The  angels,  (never  meant  for  earth)  into 
That  cave  ;  and  they,  mayhap,  have  ever  since 
Been  searching  for  her.     I  am  listening. 

IVAN. 

'Twas  two  years  after  this  she  came  one  night 

And  drew  me  from  a  labyrinth  of  dreams. 

"  Come,"   she  spoke  wildly,   "  I  have  seen  a 

light, 

Not  like  the  torches  that  we  use,  but  soft 
And  clear  and  lovely  as  an  eye."     We  went. 
It  was  a  star  she  saw  glimmering  through 
A  rupture  in  the  rock,  half  hidden  by 
A  fallen  tree,  and  creeping  vines,  and  leaves 
Of  many  summer  times.     My  heart  was  full. 
I  felt  .ZEolus'  lips  upon  my  brow, 
And  I  could  hear,  among  the  trees  without, 
The  wind's  wild  symphonies.  I  turned  to  bless 
Her — she  was  gone.     Men  hurried  to  and  fro 
In  the  rotunda  of  the  cave  with  lights. 
My  absence  was  discovered  ;  at  a  bound 
I  gained  the  opening,  and  thrust  back  the  leaves, 
And  stood  out  in  the  night — glorious  night ! 


141 


Peopled    with    planate    worlds !      The    river 

crossed, 

I  hid  me  in  the  woods,  and  cooled  my  .lips 
With  mangos,  sweetest  fruit  Pomona  hangs 
Upon  the  trees.     I  slept  in  shady  glens 
By  day,  and  traveled  under  covert  of 
The  night.     The  war  had  broken  out  afresh. 
I  joined  my  comrades  on  a  battle  eve ; 
Once  more  I  led  them  in  victorious 
Charge.     The  fame,  the  wealth,  the  rank 
I  won,  I  lay  them  at  thy  feet !      *     *     *     * 


(An  hour  later,  sunset ;  a  mist  seen  on  the  mountains.) 


BLANCHETTE. 

The  birds  are  mute,  and  all  the  winding  streams, 
With  pebbly  eyes,  flow  on  subdued.  The  woods 
Are  spotted  o'er  with  carmine,  ribbed  with  gold, 
And  the  great  sun  goes  rippling  down  the  West ! 


IVAN. 

And  Twilight,  like  some  dark  Egyptian  Queen, 
Stalks  down  the  mountain  side  ! 


142 


BLANCHETTE. 


Soon  Night  will  come, 
Cloud-capped   and  starry-eyed,    with   Saturn 

Mars 
And  Venus  in  her  train  ! 


IVAN. 

How  like  a  dream 

It  is  !     The  town  below  us  slumbering 
In  the  dusk,  and  the  faint  throbbing  of  its 
Many  hearts  ;  the  mournful  curfew  stealing 
On  the  night,  and  the  sweet  bulbul  singing 
To  the  rose  ;  and  thou,  my  love,  thou  seemest 
The  most  unreal  of  all. 


BLANCHETTE. 

There  is  a  sad, 

Dim  beauty  in  the  scene  that  touches  me. 
Morn  walking  o'er  the  coral-grottoed  deep, 
Is  not  so  'witching  as  the  dreamy  haze 
That  cloaks  this  landscape ;  and  I  would  not 

match 

One  scintillation  of  mild  Hesperus 
'Gainst  all  his  amber  beams.  The  village  lamps 
Are  lighted ;  darkness  screens  the  chimney-tops, 


143 


The  carven  gables  ;  nought  is  visible 

Save  twinkling  lamps,  except  when  some  gude- 

wife 

The  window  curtain  lifts,  and  watches  for 
Her  husband  ;  then  a  gleam  of  light  runs  out, 
Spanning  the  darkness  like  a  fairy  bridge  ! 

IVAN. 

And  Castle  Craige,  looms  'mid  the  shadows  up, 

With  window  eyes  of  fire  ;  but  Eden  wo  Id 

Is  bleak  and  gloomy  as  a  blasted  tree. 

Come,  love,  let's  leave  these  quiet,  quiet  grave* 

A  church-yard  is  a  dismal  place  at  night, 

And  we  should  not  be  sad.   Ere  Evening  sweeps 

In  purple  robes  again  across  the  sky. 

The  sweet-lipped  bell  that  silent,  drowsy  hangs 

In  yon  old  belfry  of  the  ivied  church, 

Shall  tune  its  tongue  and  chime  our  marriage 

morn. 
To-morrow,  love  !  to-morrow  ! 


144 


NIGHT  SCENE. 

ONE  cloud  was  gabled  like  a  country  house 
With  latticed  windows,  vine  hid,  through  which 

looked 

The  melting  eyes  of  stars.     From  out  one  side 
Was  hung  the  moon  like  a  great  lantern  in 
The  crowded  porch  of  some  quaint  village  inn ! 
*       *       *       *       The  far  dim  woods 
Were   tipped   with   amethyst ;      beneath    me 

stretched 

The  town  of  Eld  bespangled  with  its  lights  ; 
Above  me,  drooped  the  linings  of  the  clouds  ! 
And  I  could  hear,  like  one  in  trance,  the  feet 
Of  cascades  tripping  musically  down 
Emerald  hills,  while  ever  and  anon 
The  Nightingale  sent  trembles  thro'  the  night. 


